Devil's Lake (Bittersweet Hollow Book 1) (4 page)

Below stood her Dad’s Dodge Ram truck, headlights still shining onto the porch. Portia watched him help her mom out of the cab, and in seconds, tears scalded her cheeks.

She wobbled out of the bathroom, reached the head of the stairs, but stopped when Boone appeared, holding up a warning hand from the first floor.

“Whoa. Hold on. I’ll bring them up to you.” He bounded up the stairs, guided her back to bed, and hurried downstairs to greet Dirk and Daisy.

***

Daisy felt her strength build as the anticipation of seeing her daughter grew like a tsunami inside her. She let Dirk help her out of the truck, pushing ahead toward the warm kitchen light spilling onto the porch.

Boone ushered them inside, looking both flustered and relieved. The poor boy certainly hadn’t signed up for this.

“Come on. She’s upstairs,” he said breathlessly.

She and Dirk exchanged an excited glance, then hurried into the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs. She barely noticed how winded the climb made her.

Boone pointed to the bedroom. “She’s kind of weak. I put her back in bed.”

“Portia?” Daisy’s voice sounded hysterical, even to herself. She tried to calm it down. “Honey? It’s Mom and Dad.”

They heard her before they saw her.

“Mom? Dad?” If Daisy’s voice sounded frantic, Portia’s heart-wrenching cries were worse.

Daisy raced forward in spite of the weakness simmering in her body. Dirk followed close at her side.

She stopped short in the doorway, barely recognizing the girl under the pink comforter. “Oh my God. Portia. You’re really home.”

Portia threw back the covers, lunging toward them. In a tumble of hugs, tears, and kisses, Daisy, Dirk and Portia fell into each other’s arms, sobbing and chattering. Daisy embraced her daughter, feeling the bony body beneath. Dirk put his arms around both of them. Boone stood to the side, smiling, wiping a few stray tears from his own eyes.

“Oh, honey.” Daisy’s heart beat fast beneath her ribs. She couldn’t stop patting her daughter’s hair, cheeks, and arms. “Oh, baby. You’re home. You’re so skinny! What happened to you?”

Portia finally spoke through choking tears. “I’ll be okay. But you’re thin, too, Mom.”

Dirk corralled them both with his strong arms. “Your mom’s gonna be just fine, honey. Looks like we’ve gotta put some meat back on both your bones, huh?”

Daisy stepped back for the first time. “We are quite a pair, aren’t we?” She laughed, crying again, then climbed into bed and pulled her daughter in beside her, unable to let go of her hand.

Portia put her head on her mother’s shoulder, still sobbing. “Mom.”

Daisy held her tight, stroking her hair. “Our girl’s home, Dirk.” She smiled through tears at her husband, the amazing big lug who’d always been so strong for her, but who’d really surprised her with his strength and dedication since Portia went missing, and even more so when she fell ill with cancer.

Dirk had always been a man of simple tastes and interests, none of that fancy kiwi or sprouts for him. A meat and potatoes man. Family. Farm. Horses. That was all he talked about in the old days. And she’d been okay with that. More than okay with it. The guy had a heart of gold. When someone was hurting, he showed up at their place and helped out. If a farm was about to go under, he’d donate equipment or labor to help them get out of the hole. He didn’t often go to church, but Dirk had a strong faith and was the most genuine Christian Daisy had ever met.

He never faltered, this bear of a man, and she thanked God every day for his solid presence and corny sense of humor.

Dirk sat on the edge of the bed, holding his daughter’s hand. “Welcome home, both of you.”

Daisy pulled him over to kiss his lips. “Thank you, honey.”

Boone shifted in the background, “Guess I’ll be heading back to my place, then.”

Dirk rose to shake his hand, but impulsively pulled Boone into a bear hug. “Come back in the morning, son. We can catch up on the farm stuff, okay?”

“Sure thing.” Boone smiled, nodded to Portia and Daisy, and stepped out of the room. “See you all tomorrow.”

Chapter 7

W
hen Boone emerged into the starlit yard, he stopped for a moment to lean against his truck, glancing up at Portia’s bedroom window, which spilled warm yellow light for the first time in years.

A broad array of emotions flooded his heart.

Joy. Relief. Apprehension.

What had happened to the girl?

It must have been awful. Something dreadful. So bad the fear still raged within her and broke through with certain triggers. Like when he’d stood over her bed, too close to her. Or when he tried to touch her. Of course, his approach had been completely innocent, just him wanting to help. But the act of him looming over her, reaching for her, had caused her to lose it.

When she’d screamed, it had been so primal, so full of horror, dread, and panic, he’d felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up, like a dog’s hackles.

What the hell had that brute done to her? Or had there been more than one?

Anger coursed through him. It would be a lot simpler if he had a name or a face. A face he could smash with his fists.

Hitting that bastard would feel so good right about now.

He was convinced she’d been kidnapped, definitely abused.

But by whom? How had he grabbed her? And why?

He knew there were sickos out there. Guys who were pure evil, somehow seriously damaged. Or people with no conscience.

What did they call them? Sociopaths? Something like that. Like they were born deficient, without any sense of right or wrong. Without any concern for others.

He shook his head and glanced over to the paddock, catching Mirage staring at him.

The horse snorted, shook his head, and turned in a tight circle.

He seemed to know something was up.

Boone wandered in his direction. Immediately, the black stallion approached him. Boone fished a few chunks of carrot from his jacket pocket and offered them, palm up. “She’s home again, buddy. Your girl. You remember her, don’t you?”

Mirage pushed his soft muzzle into Boone’s hand and delicately plucked the first piece from his palm, chewing it with a rhythmic crunching sound that Boone found comforting.

He reached up to stroke the horse’s thick forelock. “That’s a good boy.”

Mirage thrust his head against Boone’s chest.

“Okay, okay. Here’s the last piece.”

He patted the horse’s sleek neck and muscled shoulder, listening to the sounds of the night. Crickets chirped in the fields. Tree frogs chorused their nightly songs. An owl screeched from the deep woods.

He straightened and took Mirage’s halter in both hands, looking at him straight on. “We’ll both help her get well, won’t we, big guy?”

Whistling a tune, Boone ambled back to his truck, turned the key in the ignition, and headed down the bumpy dirt road toward home.

***

 Portia snuggled and wept against her mother, lying beside her in her childhood bed with both dogs pressed against her. They didn’t speak for an hour. She felt her mother’s soft fingertips stroking her hair, just like when she was a little girl. Inside, deep caverns shifted and yawned, threatening to let the terror escape. But somehow, safe in her mother’s arms like a little child, all that emerged were wracking sobs.

She cried until she was wrung dry. She cried for the missed years. She cried for the pain she’d endured, the humiliations she’d suffered, the fear she’d held in, the disabling horror that had been her life for the last two years.

Throughout, her mother murmured soft nothings, little cooing sounds she’d used when Portia had fallen off her bike or took a tumble off her first pony. She patted her arms, her back, rubbing her hands in circles.

Sometime during the night, her father came into the room. He wrapped himself up in a comforter and slept in the chair by the window, softly snoring.

At midnight, with both parents close by, she finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 8

P
ortia woke with a start. Her mother and father had left the bedroom, but she heard their voices downstairs. She smelled the comforting aroma of coffee and listened to the sound of clinking dishes in the kitchen.

Sun streamed in the windows and both dogs pressed against her, Boomer behind her knees and Cupcake on the pillow by her head. She reached up to stroke Cupcake’s soft curly fur, thinking randomly she should get her groomed.

What a strange, yet decidedly normal thought to have
.

An everyday, regular-person thought.

No worries of survival, escape. No thoughts of murder or revenge.

Murder.

She shuddered, trying to push the horrible memories away…far away. It didn’t work. Unbidden images of him lying on the cabin porch flashed across her mind’s eye.

Had she done it? Did she actually kill him? Or was he only knocked unconscious long enough for her to grab the keys, get the dog, and steal his lousy truck?

Would he come after her?

He knows where I live.

She started shaking, but Boomer woke, stepped over her, and began to lap her hands and cheeks industriously, as if the sweet ministrations of his soft tongue could make her whole again.

Maybe it could.

She buried her face in his furry neck, quietly sobbing. “Thanks, Boomer.”

As if to help with the nurturing, Cupcake started to nuzzle Portia’s hands, pushing her cold, wet nose into them. She snuggled closer, her body nestled into the curve under the girl’s arm.

With dogs like this, she thought, maybe there is hope.

Maybe I can survive. Recover. Heal.

Maybe
.

The scent of bacon sizzled up the stairway.

Her stomach wrenched in hunger.

Bacon.
Real bacon
.

She sat up tentatively, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. Slowly, she slid her feet into the slippers her father had lined up next to her bed last night.

One, two, three.
Up.

She steadied herself on the headboard, feeling stronger than the day before. Both dogs jumped off the bed and shook themselves, trotting around her in excited circles.

“You guys want to go out, huh?”

She leaned down to pat them both again, and their tails wagged in unison.

Still feeling relatively steady, she reached for the robe she’d torn off during the night when she got too hot under the covers. She’d flung it to the floor, but someone—probably her mother—had folded it over the edge of the chair. She slid into it and tied the terry cloth sash into a snug bow.

Somehow, this innocent, everyday action felt supremely good.

To have a bathrobe to wrap up in….

To be able to choose her own clothing, rather than be forced into wearing something bizarre that
he
made her wear.

She might just stay in pajamas for the rest of her natural life.

She let out a half-smile, and headed for the hallway.

***

Boone finished tossing hay to the mares in the east pasture, then dragged the hose out to the big water tub extending through the fence for both the stallion and the mares. He watched the water fill, letting it overflow for a few minutes so all the dust and dirt and stray pieces of hay were flushed out of the container.

Leaning back against the fence, he surveyed the property, loving the feel of the early morning sun on his face. Dozens of horses grazed in the distance and several lowered their heads to the flakes of hay he’d strewn on the ground near the barn. A bay filly, almost a year old, approached the water tank, ears perked straight up. After drinking her fill of cool water, she ambled closer to Boone, nudging him with her wet muzzle.

“You want a treat, Laurel?”

She pushed him again, this time gently nipping at his jeans.

“Okay, okay. I’ll get you a piece.” He fished out a few chunks of carrots and let her take them from his palm. “There you go.”

Patting her neck, he admired her conformation. Broad chest, strong neck, flat topline. A perfect Morgan, maybe even top show quality. She arched her pretty neck, tossing her head and flipping her wavy black mane.

“What? You want more?”

Laurel nickered softly this time.

“I take that as a yes.” Boone dug out one more piece and offered it to the filly. “Here you go, sweetie. But I’ve gotta save some for the others, you know.”

Mirage trotted to the water tub and sloshed his big head back and forth in the water, spraying some over the fence onto Boone’s chest.

“See?” He pointed to Mirage. “He wants his treats, too.”

As if to prove the point, Mirage moved closer to the fence and stomped a hoof three times.

“Okay, okay.” Boone ducked through the fence and gave Mirage his carrots.

Just as he finished checking all the gates and making certain the place was secure, Dirk waved to him from the porch. “Morning, Boone.”

Boone waved back. “Morning, Dirk.”

“Come in for breakfast.”

Boone’s stomach growled and he smiled. “On my way.”

Chapter 9

D
aisy heard the footsteps first. She bounded up from her chair and met Portia at the bottom of the stairs. “Baby! You’re up.”

Portia leaned into her mother’s hug. “Is Dad cooking bacon?”

Daisy nodded. “He is. Scrambled eggs. Blueberry pancakes. The works. He just can’t stop cooking, he’s so glad to be back home.” She kissed her daughter’s cheeks and forehead with loud “mwah!” sounds, over and over again, letting go only when she heard Portia’s stomach growl.

“Morning, princess.” Dirk turned from the stove where he flipped pancakes with a large spatula. “Hungry?”

Daisy glanced at her husband and smiled. She loved the way he acted as if this were any old morning. As if they’d done this every day of their lives. As if Portia hadn’t just come home from God knew what horrors.

If anyone could bring their daughter back to health, it was Dirk, with his quiet, unassuming ways.