Chapter 4

Cassie's hair blew free in the salty wind of the bay, and when she turned to look at Kevin at the wheel, a wayward strand flapped in her eyes. Laughing, she plucked it away with her fingers.

The speedboat curved, plowing dazzling blue water into white-bright froth as they sped toward islands in the distance. Rory grinned when she pointed out the wind-furled sail of a catamaran; Rory loved the water and played with his toy boats in the swimming pool for hours at a time.

The bitter taste of salt rimmed her lips, and she licked it away. She saw Kevin's face as he'd looked at their wedding in Las Vegas, or was it Acapulco? She couldn't remember, but she felt the ring slip on her finger and her white wedding veil whipping in the wind. Then, without warning, their boat spun around, dizzying her, and plunged sharply beneath the sunstruck water, now turquoise (a Navaho charm?), now sapphire (my mother's ring?), now navy (a sailor I once loved?). The boat dissolved in a spurt of misty bubbles, and she was swimming desperately, trying to catch up to Kevin and Rory, who were tumbling down, down into the depths of the cool, quiet water. Cassie strained to keep her eyes on them, but it was no use. She couldn't sink no matter how hard she tried, even though her mind screamed, "Wait! I'm coming!" Her lungs burned hot and hotter, finally igniting, and the fire propelled her violently to the surface until she burst through the watery skin into daylight screaming their names.

Abruptly she awakened to find herself sitting up in Gran's bed. The salt water on her face was her own tears.

She let her head fall limply on her upraised knees as she waited for her erratic heartbeat to slow. Another of those nightmares. She'd thought she was over them. Well, she'd be sure not to skip chamomile tea at bedtime from now on.

When Bertrand pawed at the side of the bed she got up and padded into the kitchen to feed him. She let Tigger in from his night-long romp and poured food into his dish as well.

It was the unsettling arrival of John Howard that disturbed her peace. She'd been getting along fine, enjoying her garden and the preparation of Gran's remedies, and the bad dreams had stopped. And now he'd arrived, with his deep voice and his kindness and his body talking to hers with no need for words, and nothing was the same.

She nibbled distractedly at a thin slice of toast spread with butter and homemade preserves. As she sat at the table staring out the window, she saw John's car pass her house on its way down the mountain. He didn't look in her direction.

After yesterday, he must think she was crazy. And perhaps she was, a little. But she was fighting her own way back to normality, and she would make it, John Howard or no John Howard.

She'd visited Morgana's psychiatrist after her leg had healed enough to go out. Dr. Westwood had been a round dumpling of a man, jolly and sympathetic. But when Cassie realized that he didn't have a magic cure-all that would make everything all right, when she understood that the work had to be done inside herself where it counted, she'd decided to stop seeing jolly Dr. Westwood.

The task of piecing together the jigsaw puzzle of herself could be accomplished best in the quiet of Flat Top Mountain. There she could center and find her own harmony. Over Morgana's objections, Cassie fled to the little house where she had spent so many pleasant summers in her youth. Now she never wanted to leave.

She picked up her breakfast things, eager to begin working in the garden.

"Cassie?" A hesitant tap at the screen door, a shadow against the light.

"Sharon Ott! Come in! I haven't seen you since you stopped by on your graduation day, and that was over a week ago."

The girl who entered was only seventeen but a woman full-grown. Her curves filled a pair of jeans cut off at the knees and a pink blouse faded from too many washings. The shabby clothes didn't diminish her beauty, however. If anything, they let it shine through.

Sharon set a carton of eggs on the table and hugged Cassie. "It's been hard for me to get away, what with Ma's new baby and all. I brought the money from the roadside stand, and my hens have been laying." Sharon kept chickens at that ramshackle house down the road where she was the eldest of a large brood of unruly children. Cassie had befriended Sharon and her sister Bonnie early in her stay here, and the girls were Cassie's friends—her only friends—on Flat Top Mountain.

Cassie waved the money away. "I told Bonnie to keep the herb money for her college fund, but I'm glad to have the eggs."

"Bonnie'll hand over the money to Ma," Sharon said darkly, tucking the loose bills in her pocket. "You know how Ma has a hard time managing with Pa out of work and all." Sharon's father was the town reprobate, and the entire family's reputation suffered. Otts had frequent run-ins with the sheriff and were famous for their tavern brawls.

"Tell Bonnie to give your mother whatever she feels comfortable with, and I'll open a bank account for the two of you so you'll have a stash of your own." Sharon's one-year-younger sister was a straight-A student who had set her sights on a better life.

"Cassie, Bonnie and I have decided that you're the best friend ever!" Sharon threw her arms around her in a big hug.

Cassie returned the embrace. "I couldn't manage my garden without you both." After a moment, she disentangled herself and went to the kitchen to put the eggs in the refrigerator.

Sharon followed along, chattering happily. "Ma took the littlest kids to visit Aunt Monda this morning. That means I have time to play and sing for a while, Cassie, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't," Cassie told her fondly. "You know I'm always happy to listen to my prize pupil." Sharon Ott was a fine musician who had developed her ear for music while listening to her uncle's bluegrass band practicing in his kitchen. She could play the fiddle and the guitar but loved the dulcimer best of all.

Cassie lifted the dulcimer case down from its shelf and ran her fingers over the handcrafted leather. Kevin had commissioned the case made to order when they were on vacation in Italy. The leather was butter-soft, the inside padded with moss-green velvet.

"I'm going to use a popsicle stick to pluck the strings today," Sharon said. She picked up the instrument with reverence.

"A popsicle stick will work. Let's hear it." Cassie used a goose quill as a plectrum, the way Gran had, but she'd encouraged Sharon to develop her own distinctive style and to experiment with new techniques.

Cassie's dulcimer was a one-of-a-kind instrument created by a skilled mountain craftsman of black walnut wood, the surface smooth as silk. Its shape was an elongated oval, something like a stretched-out violin. Many of the old-time players, Gran among them, had played the dulcimer by plucking it. Cassie, however, had learned, in addition to plucking, to strum it much as she would a guitar or banjo. It was a more complicated way of playing, but it gave a different sound.

Sharon strummed experimentally with the wooden stick, humming "Little Turtle Dove," which was one of the old-time regional Appalachian songs that she'd learned in her uncle's kitchen.

"I like the way this sounds," said Sharon, and then she went on to sing the whole song in her low, full-throated voice. Sharon had a languid way of playing, easy and relaxed, and as she held the dulcimer on her knees and moved her hands gracefully across the strings, she seemed to become uniquely one with the instrument and the tune.

When the vibrating strains of the last chord filled the room, Cassie stood. "Much as I'd like to," she regretfully told her pupil, "I'd better not stay to listen. I want to gather chickweed before the sun gets too hot."

"Need some help?" Sharon looked eager, but Cassie knew how much Sharon valued her practice time.

"No, I'll enjoy listening as I work."

"What would you like to hear?"

"Anything." Smiling, Cassie lifted a burlap bag from a peg on the wall.

As she worked in the garden, Cassie reflected on Sharon's spunk in standing up to her parents and insisting on finishing high school over their objections. Most Otts dropped out of school after the eighth grade or even before if the authorities didn't complain, and usually they didn't. Not only had Sharon finished high school, but she earned her own spending money by selling eggs at Cassie's roadside stand. She was looking for a job, so far with no success.

Cassie was startled out of her thoughts as John Howard's white Ford Explorer unexpectedly zoomed past, stirring up a cloud of gray dust. She bent her head over the burlap bag, hiding her face in case he glanced back. He didn't.

She continued her task as the strains of Sharon's music drifted across the mountain, and it was almost as though Cassie were traveling back in time to when Gran would send her to tend the garden in the morning and she could hear Gran's sweet songs wafting from the house.

The memory made her feel more secure, as though everything was the way it had been back in those long-ago summers when she'd been happy here, before—well, before everything. And as far as John Howard was concerned, she need not worry. After that disastrous dinner last night, John would likely keep his distance. She had put him off with her histrionics, no doubt about it. It was for the best.

Later Cassie returned to the house and fixed sandwiches for lunch. She and Sharon sat at the kitchen table while Sharon told her about her father's latest job loss and her middle sister's failing in school. "If it weren't for my music, I'd be seriously depressed," Sharon said.

On impulse Cassie said, "You can take the dulcimer home with you if you like."

"Cassie, I couldn't do that. The other kids might get hold of it and break it."

"People are more important than things. I could always get another dulcimer."

"No, I'll come over here to play," Sharon said firmly. She took another bite of her sandwich.

"How's the job hunt going?"

"I've applied a few places." With her high school diploma under her belt, Sharon hoped to find steady work.

"Any call-backs?"

"One, from Chick-a-Burger over near the Interstate, but they want to know what hours I'm available. I don't have reliable transportation, so I'm trying to find a ride with someone who doesn't mind coming up the mountain to get me. Then there's Ma. She needs me to look after the kids now that Bonnie's working at the roadside stand. So many obstacles." Sharon sighed but brightened immediately. "I'll figure it out eventually."

If she allowed herself, Cassie could work up a case of anxiety over the Ott family. When she first realized their situation, she'd offered assistance in the form of herbal remedies, only to be rebuffed. What can you say about a mother who accepts having a baby every other year as her sad lot in life and a father who is often as not falling down drunk and unemployable? How much could you do for children whose parents distrust the whole world and refuse help from anyone but the welfare system?

"Does the baby have colic?" Cassie asked. Sharon had mentioned a few weeks ago that little Riley cried a lot.

"That might be what's wrong. He's still not sleeping through the night."

"Try chamomile tea," Cassie said. She instructed Sharon in the use of the tea for infants and tucked a bag of it in Sharon's pocket as she prepared to leave.

"I'll be back tomorrow to help you pull weeds," Sharon told her. "See you then." With a cheerful wave, she started toward home.

Cassie sighed in frustration. "Face it, Bertrand," she said to the inquisitive skunk, who was nudging his nose against the dulcimer case. "We can't cure the whole world from the top of Flat Top Mountain."

Or even Cassie Muldoon, she mused. So far, anyway.

In the next couple of weeks, Cassie caught glimpses of John Howard jogging past on the road most mornings, his lungs apparently undaunted by the thin mountain air. He delivered her mail every day without comment, and if he knew she was peering at him through the curtains, he made no sign. Cassie felt a twinge of guilt at those times and whenever she saw the Explorer fly past, but since he seemed to take no notice of her, she finally relaxed.

If only she didn't find herself thinking about John at odd times! The peculiar expression on his face when she'd told him Bertrand wasn't descented, his eyes as blue as the summer sky, his tall and ruggedly masculine form. Lacking real-life memories of John, Cassie began to create artificial ones. At first he crept into her thoughts unnoticed—for instance, when she was weeding her garden, she would imagine him there with her. She began to wonder what it would be like to have him around the house as she moved about her daily tasks.

She was lonely. She'd depended on the animals and the Ott girls to alleviate her loneliness, but suddenly they weren't enough. Now, with John just a short walk through the woods, her self-imposed solitude seemed like too much to bear.

One night, when the ache in her leg told her that it would soon rain, Cassie reluctantly let Tigger out at his regular time.

"Head for the shed," she warned him, but he only winked at her in the mysterious way of cats and disappeared, tail held high, into the forest.

"No, Bertrand," she cautioned the skunk, barring him from the open door with her foot. "You're not quite ready to take on the world."

Because her leg hurt, Cassie climbed into bed early and waited for the soft patter of raindrops on the roof. She read Billboard for a while, even though it was an old copy. She didn't know why Kajurian kept sending it. She usually chucked the magazines into the basket or the bottom of Gran's old chifforobe with all those unanswered letters from that persistent fellow who wanted to meet her. Her agent, the redoubtable Kajurian, also wrote often to beg her to come back to Los Angeles. Kajurian was the kind who never gave up—a quality she'd treasured in an agent but which she appreciated considerably less in her former agent, who clearly resented what her departure had meant to him in terms of dollars. Luckily, money didn't matter to her. Kevin's wise investments had left her independently wealthy.

It was still early when Cassie fell asleep with the lights on. She was dozing when the wind began to howl around the corners of her house, and for a moment in her half sleep she thought the pounding on the door was hail rattling the windows or the clatter of a shutter torn loose by the storm.

"Cassie! Open up! It's me, John!"

She rolled from her bed and ran to fling open the door. John Howard stood on her porch, his clothes plastered to his body, his hair soaked with rain. He gingerly cradled an inert and soggy bundle of fur in his raincoat. For a heart-stopping moment she thought he held Tigger, and her eyes widened in alarm.

Then with great relief Cassie saw that it wasn't her cat after all. It was a raccoon, drenched and unconscious but breathing.

"I was driving home in the storm and this raccoon ran out in front of me. I couldn't avoid hitting him," he said. "I didn't want to leave him on the side of the road when I realized he was still alive. He looks pretty scraped up."

"Bring him in," she said. She tossed towels on the living room table and spread them before John laid the unconscious raccoon on top. As she bustled around the room collecting supplies, ointments, and bandages, she spared John a quick glance. His teeth were chattering.

"John, you're chilled to the bone. You'll find towels in the bathroom."

John was amazed at how calm Cassie was as she checked the raccoon. He went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel. "Is he going to be all right?"

"The scrape on his right side is the worst. I'll swab it with goldenseal ointment."

As he walked back into the room toweling his hair, John raised his brows, questioning.

"Goldenseal promotes healing," she explained. She'd already washed the scrape and was liberally applying the ointment.

"Can you save him?"

Cassie glanced up. "I'll try."

John had let the towel fall loosely around his shoulders. He was still shivering. "You need a hot drink," she said. "I'll brew it if you'll put dry towels in that empty box over there." She indicated the cardboard box by the front door.

"Will do."

She hurried into the kitchen and quickly prepared her own special blend of elderberry tea.

"Shall I put the raccoon in the box?"

"Yes, go ahead."

John was tucking towels around the raccoon when she returned. It was still unconscious and didn't seem to be in pain. John accepted the mug of tea with a grateful grin.

"We might as well sit down while we wait to see what happens." She sat at the table across from where he stood, and after a moment's hesitation, he sat too. He leaned back, sipped the tea and rolled it around on his tongue. It had an unusual taste. "This is good, but I can't place the flavor," he said. "What is it? Licorice?"

"Anise," she said. She couldn't believe the absurd thrill she felt at seeing John Howard sitting at her own table. She'd imagined it so many times that he didn't seem real.

He drained the mug. "That was good. Say, I keep a change of clothes in the SUV. Do you mind if I get out of these wet things?"

"Of course not," Cassie said. "I'd better light the fire." She set down her mug and hurried to the fireplace.

He rose, and she was aware that he was watching her. Her robe was opaque, but she had the feeling that he could see right through it. Just in case, she wrapped it tighter.

He hesitated at the door on his way out. "Does it get usually get cold enough for a fire in June?"

"I always keep it ready to light. The damp bothers me, so—" Instantly she regretted saying this, even though she was always self-conscious about her leg when it ached so much. Why did she want him to know all the things that were wrong with her? She had an inexplicable urge to tell him how she had nightmares, how and why she had retreated from society to live in solitude on Flat Top Mountain, why she resisted reminders of her previous life. If he thought she was seriously neurotic, maybe he'd go away. And yet that wasn't what she really wanted.

"See you in a minute," he said before he went outside. She heard him splashing through puddles in the yard as she lit the tinder. It caught easily, and then the kindling. She backed away, welcoming the warmth.

John stomped his feet on the porch before he came in carrying a bundle of clothes stuffed into a gym bag. "The rain's not letting up," he said. "In fact, it's getting worse." He went in the bathroom and shut the door. Cassie tried not to think about him tugging off his wet jeans, yanking his shirt over his head, getting naked in her own house.

When he came out wearing a warm-up suit, she spoke brusquely. "You can sit here, next to the fire." She'd pulled an old-fashioned settle closer to the hearth.

"Might as well bring this little fellow," he said. He lifted the cardboard box from the table and stared down at the furry masked face for a moment. "I hope he makes it," and there was a wistful note to his voice. It touched Cassie that this man cared so much about an injured animal.

"I think the best thing to do is leave him alone right now," she said. "He's not bleeding, and I don't think he has any broken bones." She leaned over for another look. The movement slid the neckline of her robe to one side; for a moment John caught a titillating glimpse of brown upon brown, but the smooth curve of her breasts was quickly hidden when she straightened.

"I don't know what more to do for him other than barley water," she said. "It's a wonderful restorative."

"Can I help?" he called as she disappeared into the kitchen.

"Keep an eye on that raccoon," she answered. "If he suddenly pulls himself together and starts racing around the room, we'll have a problem with Bertrand."

"Bertrand? You mean he's in the house?"

"In the guest bedroom. Can't you hear him scratching around?"

John listened. Over the crackling of burning logs, he did hear something. Sharp little claws skittering across bare wood. Something rolling. A scamper every once in a while.

"What's Bertrand doing in there?" he said edgily. He had no desire to remain in the same enclosed space with a fully equipped skunk who didn't like men.

"Playing with empty spools and dragging around old panty hose." Cassie emerged from the kitchen with liquid in a baby bottle.

"I thought—hoped—that by this time Bertrand had rambled off into the sunset to be with his friends."

Cassie smiled. "No, he's still not feeling up to par. And I'm attached to him. I hate the idea of giving him up." She shook the bottle and expertly dribbled a few drops of the barley water on her wrist. "This is a nice lukewarm temperature. Why don't you hold our little friend's head while I dribble this down his throat."

John knelt beside her, feeling sadly inexpert. He cautiously lifted the raccoon's head. "You mean like this?"

"Slide your hands under his neck—that's right. I think his swallowing reflex will be intact."

"What if he wakes up? Have you seen the size of his teeth?" John looked distinctly uneasy.

"Don't worry. He's too weak to do anything but lie there. Probably."

"Probably?"

Cassie shot him a look. "Don't wimp out on me, John."

He didn't have any intention of doing so, but he was ready to bolt if the raccoon's teeth headed in the direction of his fingers. He watched warily as Cassie inserted the nipple of the bottle between the animal's jaws. A couple of spoonfuls of liquid finally slid down the raccoon's throat, but much more ran out of its mouth and over their hands. The raccoon's eyes flicked open again and then closed peacefully. His breathing was steady. Cassie tunneled her hand beneath the animal's foreleg and rested her fingers for a few seconds on the soft downy hair of its chest.

"The heartbeat seems regular," she announced in satisfaction. "I think he's going to be all right. In fact, maybe we should give him a name. I'm may have to keep him around for a while."

"How about Rupert? It's a name that seems to fit in the same general category as Bertrand."

Cassie broke into a wide smile, and the tension too often noticeable in her face disappeared. "Rupert it is."

The two of them exchanged a glance of satisfaction, of sharing. It felt good to work together to accomplish something worthwhile. Saving the life of another living thing had pulled them together, giving them something in common.

We're going to be all right, thought John in surprise and with a sense of elation. He didn't say the words out loud because Cassie didn't realize it yet. But she would. Soon.