FIFTEEN

 

 “What’s that? Did you see that, Ashby?” Jeff reined in Sunshine and listened.

I brought Sasha alongside. “What’s what?”

Sasha’s ears flickered and he stamped, impatient to get on with his run.

“Dunno. Nothing, maybe. I thought I saw something moving in those trees over there.” He pointed. “Let’s walk the horses over.”

We had gone only about twenty feet off the trail when there was a sudden crackling of underbrush and a man emerged from behind a big oak not six feet in front of us. Startled, I drew back on Sasha’s bridle.

“Well, hey,” the man said in a deep drawl. “What’s this?”

He was not much older than me, with light hair and rough skin. He wore a faded red work shirt and jeans. His teeth looked like a broken zipper.

“What’re you doing here, Eddie?” Jeff asked, with an edge I had never before heard in his young voice. He urged Sunshine closer to the guy. Without notice, the fellow reached for Sunshine’s bridle, pulling horse and boy within inches of his pitted face.

“Stop it, Eddie. What d’ya think you’re doing?” Jeff struggled to pull Sunshine away.

“Th’ question is, what’re you doin’ here? Yer on Mills’ prop’ty, Tadpole.”

“Who says?” Jeff demanded with surprising pluck. “This is our woods, Eddie. You better get lost before Luke finds out you’re trespassing again.”

The man scoffed at Jeff and leered suddenly at me. “Who’s yer purty friend, Tadpole?” The twist of tobacco that bulged in his cheek muddled his already slurred syllables, and I had to practically read his lips to understand him. He moved to block my way.

My heart rapped a wild rhythm in my chest. I should be the one to stand up to this bully, not my little cousin. “Look,” I said, with all the force I could muster. “Look, Eddie. We aren’t bothering you. Let my cousin alone, okay? Just let him go.”

“Oh, so yer the Tadpole’s cousin, eh?” His lips sneered into an ugly line. “Well, well. If yer who I think y’ are, that makes me and you cousins, too. Did y’ know that? Marian’s father an’ mine was brothers. We’re kissin’ cousins, I’d say.” He flashed his gruesome teeth.

Evidently pleased with himself, Eddie momentarily relaxed his grip on Sunshine’s bridle, prompting me to call out, “Go, Jeff! Quick! Get Luke!” With a hard tug on the reins, Jeff turned and bolted back down the trail. Oh, God, I thought in distraction. One of the house rules—never ride the trail alone—what if he hurts himself? Uncle Hunter will never forgive me.

But I turned again to the intruder, this time with fierce purpose. “Do you get your kicks bullying little kids, Eddie Mills? Is that your idea of fun?”

“Aw-w, y’ didn’t have t’ send th’ tadpole off,” Eddie groused. “I wasn’t gonna hurt ’im. An’ I ain’t aimin’ t’ hurt you, neither.” His bravado gone, Eddie was all sulk and whine.

I noticed he kept turning to look nervously back at the trail Jeff had taken, watching out for Luke’s arrival.

He returned his attention to me, holding Sasha at bay. “I seen y’ before, and I knowed who you was. Yer the one Wolf scared.” Eddie’s colorless eyes squinted. “It was a accident. He got loose is all. He wouldn’t hurt ya’. I was right on his heels. I saw y’ faint, jest before I grabbed Wolf an’ hauled him off home.” He looked down at the ground and scuffed his boot in the underbrush. “They won’t no need to kill Wolf.” A look of real pain twisted his features. “Don’t talk about bullyin’ when your own uncle went an’ killed my Wolf.”

I was completely nonplussed. “My uncle did not kill your dog,” I said with heat. “When he found him on the dock, the animal was already dead.”

“You say. I heared that story, too. But I know a thing or two ’bout Hunter Overton.” Eddie Mills locked eyes with me. “Killin’s nothin’ new t’ him. He killed yer mother and father, y’ know.”

I was blown away. What was he saying? It was outrageous.

“I figgered y’ wouldn’t know nothin’ about it. Th’ Overtons is good about hidin’ all th’ skeletons in they closets. There won’t never no charges or nothin’, a course, since they’s rich an’ got th’ money to pay off all th’ cops an’ lawyers an’ judges an’ sech.” He spat. “Jes’ like they done when they stole our prop’ty.”

“Listen, Eddie. What you’re saying is impossible. My parents died in a car accident.”

“It was a icy night an’ it was Hunter put in a call to Marian and Wash to come quick becuz Ol’ Man Thomas was a dyin.’ Hunter, he knowed how fast his brother liked t’ drive and he reckoned on them crashin’ on the curvy, icy road.” Eddie paused before his punch line. “With his brother out the way, Hunter would stand t’ inherit the whole shebang. House, grounds, horses, an’ th’ money.” Crossing his arms, he glared at me, defying me to deny his story.

“No way could my uncle possibly predict such a wreck. It was an accident. That’s all. A terrible accident.”

“Don’t y’ see? That’s the point. Old Thomas Overton wasn’t dyin’ that night. Why, he lived on near a year afterwards. I’m tellin’ ya’, ma’am. Yer uncle was makin’ damn sure to inherit everything.”

“How do you know Hunter was the one who called my parents that night, Eddie?”

Eddie’s smirk creased his pocked cheeks. “Well, y’ see, Marian and Wash was goin’ to a party that night. They left you with a baby sitter.”

“So what?”

“It jest so happens, my mother was the baby sitter. She took th’ call from Hunter that night. The minute Marian an’ Wash come in from the party, why, she sent ’em on their way to Overhome. Said to hurry becuz Wash’s father was a dyin.’ Hunter said so.” He leaned against a tree and spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into the brush. “Wash was speedin’, and he’d had a drink or two at the party. His car never made the curve before the driveway. They was both killed instantly. Jest like Hunter planned it.”

In the distance I heard the sound of horses, and I knew Jeff was returning with Luke. Eddie heard it, too, for he turned tail to run back into the woods. But, he could not resist a parting shot. “Jest don’t fergit. Yer only half Overton. Other half’s Mills.” He took off at a trot, disappearing between the trees.

I went to meet Jeff and Luke. One look at Luke was enough to make me laugh. He was riding Donnie, the gaited pinto pony who was up in years and ornery as Lucifer himself. Donnie’s favorite trick was to run his rider under low-slung branches in hopes of knocking him off. Luke rode bareback, his long legs trailing the ground.

“Donnie was the closest horse at the time,” he explained. “Y’ don’t mess around with Eddie Mills. I’m goin’ after him.”

I put a hand on Luke’s arm. “No, Luke. Don’t. He tried to bully Jeff and he told me a whacked-out story I refuse to believe. Leave it alone. It’s done and he’s gone.”

“He didn’t hurt anybody,” Jeff piped up. “If you go after him, Dad might find out you sent me riding back alone. Then we wouldn’t be allowed to ride any more…” Jeff blinked nervously. “Don’t tell Dad, Luke. Okay?”

Jeff turned his big blues on me. “You, too, Ashby. Promise you won’t tell Dad? He’ll never let me and you ride together again!”

Luke was first to give in. “Oh, I guess we can keep it b’tween the three of us. It’s just that I don’t like Eddie thinkin’ he can bully you an’ trespass on Overton property actin’ like it’s his.”

“Ashby?” Jeff looked at me pleadingly. “You won’t tell Dad?”

“I don’t know, Jeff. Your dad entrusted you to me. If I don’t tell him and he finds out…”

“We’ll tell him later, then,” Jeff exploded. “Just don’t tell him now. Okay, Ashby? Pul-eeze?” Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.

This was about more than Jeff’s longing to ride with me. He looked truly frightened at the prospect of his father’s finding out we’d broken the rules—allowed Jeff to ride alone—even if for an emergency. This realization and Jeff’s persistence wore me down. “All right, already. For now.”

We had reached the bridge, where Jeff moved ahead to allow Luke and me to follow single-file. Letting my cousin ride ahead a bit, Luke moved astride Sasha and took the opportunity to ask guardedly, “Eddie didn’t try to hit on ya’, did he Ashby?”

“He spent the whole time telling me about…about the axe he has to grind with my uncle. Know what I mean?”

“’Fraid so.” He reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze.

At the stables, Luke left us and Jeff and I led the horses to the ring. It was then I noticed a strange car at the crest of the drive, a sleek green Jaguar and a smartly-dressed, distinguished-looking man who stepped from the driver’s side. Waving, he approached the riding ring. “Hello! Fine day for riding.”

I looked to Jeff to supply an identity. “It’s Dad’s lawyer. I forget his name.” He shrugged.

“Hello,” the man said again as he approached. “I’m Fred Taylor.” He hung over the fence. “You’re making me wish I wore my jodhpurs. I used to do quite a lot of riding myself, right here at Overhome. Hunter and I spent hours trailing these woods when we were not much older than young Jeff, there. You must be Ashby, down from Jersey.” His smile was dazzling.

Leading Sasha, I moved toward the fence. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Taylor.”

“On my way back from town, I decided to stop and save Hunter a trip to my office.”

I must have looked blank, for he smiled again and said, “Matters of estate, my dear.” He looked fondly at the horses. “Now, much as my heart is here, I’d best get on with my work. Is your uncle home?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Taylor,” I said. “If you’ll go up to the house, I’m sure Miss Coleville can tell you.”

Just then Abe appeared at the stable door. “Who’s that?” he rasped. “Who’s here?” His eyebrows knitted a line over his nose.

“It’s Dad’s lawyer, Abe,” Jeff told him.

Abe looked ready to blow the man’s head off. “Hrrumph. Whatta y’ want?”

The lawyer tried to calm the old man. “Just looking for Hunter, Abe.”

“I’ll take you to the house, Mr. Taylor,” Jeff offered unexpectedly. “Ashby, will you stable Sunshine for me?” When I nodded, Jeff scrambled over the fence, leading the way to the house.

Abe watched them disappear. “Hrrumph!” he snorted again. “Never could abide that struttin’ turkey.”

“Why? Mr. Taylor seems nice enough to me.”

“Becuz. It’s Fred Taylor that’s give Hunter Overton a bad name around here. If y’ ask me.”

“My uncle has a bad name?”

“Him and Taylor, haulin’ all over the countryside buyin’ up distress land, makin’ surveys and subdividin’ property, and foreclosin’ on mortgages. Folks don’t like that, y’ know? Land’s what it’s all about. Don’t nobody take kindly to sellin’ out under stress.” He shook his head. “I know it’s none a’ my bizness, but people talk. ‘Young Hunter is turnin’ out jest like his ol’ man,’ they says. ‘Jest like old Thomas Overton, robbin’ the poor to serve the rich.’” With a look of disgust, he continued. “Why, Luke told me ’bout Lawyer Taylor always wantin’ to check the account books. Luke says the guy has a lotta nerve pokin’ his head in where it’s not needed.” He frowned. “Fred’s a lot like his father, Bill. Bill Taylor was Thomas’s lawyer. I didn’t care fer him, neither.” He snorted again. “Like father, like son, so they says.”

He wandered off, muttering under his breath, but, as I wiped down the horses, I was left with new impressions of my uncle. First Eddie Mills, then Abe. Two totally different people coming from completely different angles, and both arrived at a singular conclusion—Hunter Overton, Villain. It seemed Uncle Hunter had a dual personality. He had been nothing but kind and polite to me, helpful, nice as could be. Should I trust my own impressions, or should I believe what I had heard today? I would have to think about it. It was definitely a matter for my diary.

 

 

Dear Diary, This is the most unpredictable place imaginable. Just when I think I know someone, my whole perspective changes. Monica, Hunter, and Luke. My first impressions were so totally false about each and every one. And I always prided myself on being an excellent judge of character! My aunt seems so poised, so perfectly in control, interested only in the social and the superficial, yet she’s filled with insecurity, with fears and desires for her husband and son, and she thinks I am a savior and a role model. My uncle appears to be the quintessential country gentleman, but he has a “Robbing Hood” reputation among the locals. And Eddie Mills calls him a murderer. Ah, then there is Luke. Luke, the redneck hick with the charismatic smile, is, in actuality, a pre-veterinary-med college student champing at the bit to move on with his life and get away from Overhome. Jeez! Where does this all leave me? Here, I’ve been dreaming up the settings and themes for my first book, and it’s all based on totally false characters. Reminds me of a play we studied in a college lit course. I’d have to call my romance “Three Quirky Characters in Search of a Novel.”

Sigh. In spite of my best intentions and efforts, I still know next to nothing about my roots. And, at the end of every day, I have to ask myself, do I really believe in ghosts? Who, or what, is Rosabelle? Will I ever find the answers?

For the record, Diary, though I’ve been kissed many times in my life, never have I encountered the likes of Luke Murley. The warmth, the passion, the desire he stirs up is downright scary. I like to think of myself as a woman who knows her own mind and body and who maintains absolute control of both. Now, I am not so sure. Maybe it has something to do with those damn roses.

 

Not a bit sleepy, and still enveloped in a cloud of romance, I decided to pull out my parents’ love letters, which I had hidden inside a small box deep between the bed springs and mattress. So well hidden were they that it took me a good five minutes to locate and extricate them, reaching blindly within the guts of the old bed. With a decisive yank, I finally retrieved the packet. Changing my radio station from country to my favorite light rock, I sat on my bed, poring over page after page of Washington’s letters to Marian, wondering all the while how she might have answered them.

I paused over one dated in May, then went back to re-read a paragraph. “I’m going to be a father! What perfect timing for us! I graduate in two weeks and then we can have the lovely wedding we’ve been planning for so long. So what if the baby is a tad ‘premature?’ I tip my glass to Spring Break. It was as productive as it was refreshing, huh? Growing up with two brothers makes me hope for a sweet little girl, but anything we team up on is bound to be the greatest! Our baby! I am proud and excited and happy all at once and I love you more than ever, if that’s possible.”

So I was ‘premature’ as they referred to it in the Victorian era. Marian in her one-entry diary had mentioned Thomas Overton’s insinuation that the child she carried might not be Washington’s. I suppose my surly old grandfather wanted to believe the worst, that Marian, or the Mills family, had manipulated the Overtons into a ‘shotgun wedding.’ Certainly, I had never considered such a possibility, but for some reason, the fact that I was conceived before my parents married didn’t matter at all. Perhaps because it was clear my father’s own reaction was completely positive. Carefully, I replaced the letters in their envelopes, tied the pink ribbon in place, and returned the packet to its hiding place. I slipped into bed, thinking about the love my mother and father so obviously felt, for one another, and for me. I drifted off, wondering if love and hate exist side by side in every family, as they seem to in mine.

* * * *

 

The dream was very real. “Rosabelle,” I spoke into the oval mirror above the old dresser. “Rosabelle, if you’re here, give me a sign. Please. A sign, Rosabelle.” I barely breathed, looking, listening, for what I did not know. I was not surprised when the notes of the song began, falling like pebbles into a brook. “Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes.”

My eyes fixed on the reflection shifting in the pitted glass of the mirror. It was not a face, but a form—white, gray, black. It swirled and mixed, steadying at last so that I recognized a woman’s features. She wore an old-fashioned white cap. A high, white collar encircled her throat. Where her eyes would have been, two black hollows looked out blindly from a gray face.

“Rosabelle.” I was whispering now. “Whatever you want from me, whatever you have for me, I’m ready. I’m here. It’s me, Ashby. I feel your presence. I know you’re here.”

Slowly, the impression faded from the mirror until I saw only my own wide-eyed face, pale as death, looking back at me. I strained my ears, listening for the music, but it had disappeared along with the ghostly image. I felt no fear, not of roses or songs or signs. Here, in this room, I knew I was safe. Protected. Watched over by someone who had returned from a long-ago time.

The visions and images, the feelings, were still fresh in my mind when I awoke next morning. As the sun glanced through the French doors, I took a few moments to relive the dream and what it might mean, if anything. Stretching wide, my fingers touched something tucked under my pillow, something crisp and light. It was a single sheet of paper, parchment paper, almost transparent with age.

Hand-lettered in fading ink and written in a graceful, old-fashioned script was a poem:

 

 

MY LUVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE

By Robert Burns

 

 

My Luve is like a red, red rose,

That’s newly sprung in June;

My Luve is like the melodie,

That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

 

 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my Dear

Til a’ the seas gang dry.

 

 

Til a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;

And I will luve thee still, my Dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.

 

 

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!

And fare-thee-weel a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Though ’twere ten thousand mile!

 

 

A simple poem, but I read it over and over. Robert Burns, a famous Scottish poet from the distant past. If I remembered my Brit Lit, he had lived in the eighteenth century. Robert Burns who also wrote the song “Flow Gently, Sweet Afton.” Burns, a poet from the Romantic Era, his theme—love. Love is red roses, melodies, and that which endures forever. It was hyperbole for sure: Love lasts until all the seas go dry and the rocks melt with the sun and the sands of life itself run out. But it was the last two lines that held me: “And I will come again, my Luve, Though ’twere ten thousand mile.”

For a long time I sat, propped on my pillows, reading and re-reading the page, until I had memorized the entire poem. The message was crystal clear: Love does not die with death, and the one who loves enough will come back, no matter the distance. I knew then what I had suspected all along without being able to put my finger on it—the warmth, the protective feelings, the flow of the music—they were evidence of a deep and abiding love. But why had I been chosen for this devotion?

Dreamily, I lay back against the headboard, knowing without question that the two were connected, the dream and the poem. When, at last, I reached to turn on my radio, I was not surprised to hear the twang of a country hoedown.