Chapter 1

Gracie Howard watched Gene Carter’s beat-up Chevy truck—faded blue hood, red door and missing fender—soar within inches of the front step of Swirly’s Ice Cream parlor. Gracie, breathing in deeply, picked up the ice cream scooper.

“One-two-three …” She held her breath, silently counting from behind the counter.

The smell was worse than usual today. Along with Gene and the squealing load of hogs packed into the trailer out front of Swirly’s was his brother, Willy. The two disheveled men entered and peered at the selection of ice cream flavors listed on the chalkboard hanging on the wall behind Gracie. At the count of thirty-nine, unable to hold her breath any longer, she resorted instead to her well-rehearsed, shallow breaths.

Willy streaked his finger across the glass top of the deep freeze pointing to each flavor and asked, “That a new ‘un … Peppermint Pretty?”

Gracie chuckled, falling into the conversation they had had more than a dozen times, “Granddaddy made that one for me last spring as a high school graduation gift.”

Then turning to Gracie’s grandfather with childlike enthusiasm, Willy said, “Thomas! These those new cones that don’t get soggy?” Willy jabbed his brother with his elbow, fascinated by the coated ice cream cones protected with a thin oil-and-sugar glaze. The cone tips fit perfectly into the holes of the upside-down milk crate Thomas rigged to hold each cone upright, making it possible for Gracie to serve the customers with her only hand. Her right arm ended near the elbow.

Gracie raised her hand to her face and placed her palm over her mouth, cupping her chin. With her forefinger and ring finger at each side of her nose to help block the smell, she took a few deep breaths. She missed their previous deep freeze that had held only six flavors. Though it had had a heavy lid which was harder for Gracie to lift, Willy had been satisfied with fewer samples. The new deep freeze with a glass sliding display window made it easier for Gracie to get to the ice cream, but Willy took longer with ten flavor options. She waited for Willy to consider his next flavor to taste. Removing her hand, she picked up another spoon and scooped the bite for him. His eyes lit up when he swallowed the Peppermint Pretty.

“Ummm, that one’s got candy in it!” Willy looked toward Gene.

Gene pointed to his usual Chocolate Swirl, ignoring Willy.

Willy’s and Gene’s identical Cartwright jackets, originally navy blue, now pale gray, differed only by Willy’s bright “Treasure Festival 1965” button and the cotton crumbs that trailed from its ripped seam.

“Scoop ‘a Chocolate Swirl!” Willy declared. Gene nodded in approval. “Oh, give me two of ‘em on that fancy cone,” Willy decided.

“A fancy cone coming right up,” Gracie said indulgently, enjoying the delight that a simple scoop of ice cream could evoke, yet surprised by a twinge of jealousy.

Willy grinned from ear to ear, nodding as if counting the seconds until the cone was in his hand—his tongue’s tip out of his mouth, ready for the first lick.

Gracie lowered her eyes to conceal the avalanche of painful emotions that instantly encompassed her. Taken aback by a silly old man’s absurd delight about two scoops of Chocolate Swirl, she yearned to once again feel that kind of innocent joy.

* * *

Kage reached out to steady the boarding passenger, words of apology on his lips. The man had tripped in the aisle of the bus on Kage’s foot, which was helping to cradle the backpack between his legs. The guy jabbed his elbow at Kage’s extended hand and cursed. Recovering his footing, he leaned toward Kage, “… blasted ignert!”

Without hesitating, Kage thrust his fist at the stranger’s jaw and followed with an immediate uppercut, causing the man to tumble to the opposite side of the bus as it began to pull away. With one last punch to the stomach, Kage laid the stranger onto the lap of an elderly lady who had somehow managed to sleep though the ruckus.

Kage, not afraid of a fight, actually got a sense of satisfaction from the shock in his right arm. He had worked construction since fourteen, pulling the weight of laborers twice his age. With every pick ax swung and scoop of earth shoveled, his arms and upper body had grown stronger.

Living on his own since he was twelve, he had spent the past seven years drifting from town to town learning countless lessons about life. Those who quickly sized up his compact five-foot-seven frame, twenty-nine-inch waist, and cordial demeanor to assume he could be easily taken soon recognized that they had underestimated both the muscle backing his punch and his will to survive.

As the passenger he’d hit scrambled to stand, Kage noticed the stranger’s wallet in the aisle. He grabbed his backpack, discretely dipped for the wallet, and rushed to the front of the bus, pushing the door handle open. Mumbling obscenities, the bus driver slammed the door, catching the raveled hem of Kage’s pants. Kage tugged his leg, jumped a few small hops and broke free just as the bus pulled away. He hadn’t bathed in days. His sandy hair was tangled and matted against his forehead, and his only pair of jeans were so soiled they were better suited for a trashcan than a washing machine. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and inspected the wallet.

“Here for the festivities?” a guy leaning against a tent post greeted Kage. Tents resembling Fourth-of-July firework stands dotted the town, and from the closest one, a banner hung that read Ridgewood Treasure Festival.

“No, looking for work, though.” The wallet offered only three dollars. Kage tossed the wallet into the large trash barrel as he approached.

“That a billfold you just threw in there?” The guy eyed Kage and then the barrel.

“Ain’t got nothing in it.”

“Name’s Barrrneee,” drawled the young man as he reached out to shake Kage’s hand but didn’t follow through. A pony-tailed teenager in a Treasure Festival T-shirt walking by caught his attention. Barney’s eyes followed her, and he winked, striking an arrogant pose similar to that of the late James Dean, his red hair and freckled face, no match to the movie star. Sliding into his dinged-up Pontiac coup as if it were Dean’s Porsche 550 Spyder, Barney rolled down his window and revved his engine. “Climb in.” He motioned for Kage to open the passenger’s door. Kage sank into the bucket seat.

Barney cranked the car radio until the vibration of the dashboard drowned out the song’s lyrics. He turned sharply onto a dirt road and without warning slammed on the brakes, spinning the car. Dust smothered the coup. As it came to rest, dirt and gravel showered in through the open windows. He lit a cigarette, ground another gear and blared Billy Holiday’s “When Your Lover Has Gone”. Singing off key, he hollered out the window on impulse, nodding his head and slapping the steering wheel.

They pulled in front of what looked like an old tobacco barn. Barney turned off the engine, and though Billy Holiday was silenced with the ignition, Barney continued singing.

“This it?” Kage asked. He took in the modestly converted barn, assessing the carpentry work which made it livable.

“Yeeip,” Barney acknowledged Kage’s question only to revert back to song, butchering the melody. Once inside, Barney waved him toward a ladder. “This way.”

Kage dropped his backpack next to one of the cots in the cramped loft. “So, this is where we sleep?”

“Yep. There’s some water for you to clean yourself up,” he pointed to a bucket of water. Outhouse is ‘round back. No fancy flushing toilets here.”

Kage had no complaints. Even a barn was better than the orphanage that had been his home.

* * *

Gracie frantically turned circles hearing her mother’s cry, “Gracie, where are you?” Her voice was unmistakable, “Gracie! My baby … where are you?” The clear sound of her mother’s voice was the only thing recognizable in the foggy, smoke-filled room. A thick gray whirl encompassed her. She could no longer see her bed, dresser, or the rocking chair that held her life-sized Raggedy Ann doll, just inches shorter than her eleven-year-old frame.

Gasping, then coughing, she wrapped her fingers around her throat and prayed for untainted, fresh air. She tasted the smoke on her tongue, thick like molasses, and her eyes stung, only relieved by flowing tears. She pressed the heels of her palms deep into her eyes, moisture pooling their rims. She stepped backward, tripping. Flashes of fire mounted, as if the sun had fallen from the sky, right into the hallway outside her bedroom.

Reaching desperately in every direction, Gracie inched forward searching for the window ledge. Instead, she bumped into her bureau drawers, causing the porcelain knickknacks on her dresser to rock, clank together, and tumble to the floor. She slid down the edge of the dresser to the floor and welcomed its smooth, cool surface against her back. She wrapped her arms around her knees and curled into a ball as she heard her mother scream again, “Gracie!” She covered her ears, and another large beam fell. For a mere second, she saw a small piece of the serene, sapphire sky. Then, like a devouring pack of wolves, the flames rose high again consuming everything above her.

Gracie collapsed, shaking, against the floor. She took shallow breaths, one and another. Then she felt a hand on her back. Could it be her mother? How? She tried fiercely to open her eyes. She stretched her brows and strained to no avail—all was endless, empty, ashen. Are my eyes open and all there is to see is darkness? The moment of tranquility she experienced when she believed her mother touched her gave way to panic again.

Gracie jolted upright in bed, thrashing, sweat on her face. Though safe in her grandfather’s home, Gracie gasped for the unsullied air, taking it in so violently she choked. Reaching out with her arms, she swatted and swirled like a windmill out of control. Her heart raced like the fire in her dream. Her eyes adjusted to the moonlight seeping in through her bedroom curtains. She glanced to the bedroom door and then to the window. She had heard it so clearly. Her mother had said her name—called for her. She’d been there beside her—touched her. Gracie stretched to place her hand on her back where she had felt her mother’s touch just seconds before. Aching to relive the comforting sensation, she wanted to hold onto the feeling as long as she could. However, there was no smoke in the room, nor was her mother there with her. As always, the sweet vision faded, along with the nightmare.

Gracie listened for her grandfather. Had she screamed out like last time? The last dream was worse. She had felt the fire consuming her. She had dashed to the bathroom, vomiting in the cup of her hand. Her screams that night had disturbed her grandfather, and he sat with her until she was able to sleep again. He kissed her on the temple, his arms snug around her, as they both rocked to a silent rhythm. He whispered, “You are strong, Gracie; such a strong girl.” His encouraging words played through her mind once more.

It had been this way since the fire took her father, mother, sister—and her hand—seven years ago. The nightmares were not always a room of fire. There were other dreams—dreams of losing her teeth, each falling out as she desperately gathered them—dreams of falling from the sky, praying for someone to catch her.

Tucking the quilted duvet tightly under her chin, Gracie let her head sink into her pillow. In the warmth and protection of the covers she held onto the feeling of her mother’s touch. It was so real that she pretended for a minute that maybe it was.

Gracie moved her lips, but no sound came out, “Mama …”