End of the Road (24 page)

As I pointed the car towards home, I paused
for the briefest moment to look upon the burning mass which had
once been Bennet’s barn. Through the swirling clouds of thick
smoke, the light of the fire showed me the one thing I wanted to
see.

The doors still held.

I tore away at a breakneck pace, slowing
only when the outline of my own house appeared in the glow of the
headlamps.

***

That was over seven years ago. I moved
almost immediately thereafter, away from the shadow of Drover
Mountain and that cursed sinkhole. I now reside near the other end
of the county, in a fine house on the shore of Clairbourne Lake. I
have married, and my wife has given me a son. He’s a fine lad of
two years, already strapping and hale at such a young age.

I have never returned to Bennet’s place—in
any event, there would be precious little to return to. The
farmhouse caught as the barn burned, and by dawn all of the
structures on the farm had been reduced to nothing but glowing
cinders. Of Bennet himself, no trace was ever found, and there were
no stories of anything out of the ordinary being found in the
ashes.

I tell myself that the unholy creature met
its demise in the fire that night, and I really want to believe
that.

But earlier in the evening, while stacking
firewood, I heard something in the woods down by the water’s edge.
Something that sounded like the cross of a baby’s cry and the
shriek of an eagle.

I look in on my wife and son, both abed and
sleeping peacefully. I could never let anything hurt them, and I
know what I must do.

I am taking my shotgun, and I’m going down
to the lake. I will leave this written account where it can be
found in the event that I do not return.

For, God forgive me, I fear that I may
not.

Alvin Theodore McCoy, Esq.

November 20, 1943

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Chapter 22

Sans Cinderella

By Traci Tyne Hilton

The Prince stifled a yawn
behind his gloved hand. The glove was new, white kid, and perfect.
In much better form
than the Prince,
without a doubt.

The Prince, Bertie, was miffed with his
father. While Bertie’s best hound was fighting a mysterious
infection at the stables he was at yet another forced march of
eligible young ladies. In the mind of the doddering king this was
the perfect place for young Bertrand to find a wife.

It had been much the same for the king and
queen thirty years previously. And just a year ago for Bertie’s
cousin the Marquis of Huffington. Old Huffy had picked a girl just
like he was supposed to, from one of last season’s parades, and
already had an heir.

This particular march of
breeding stock was the end limit. Absolutely the end. It was a
hopeless last minute,
end of the season
move on the king’s part and as such necessarily destined for
failure. “I mean really,” Bertie thought, “if I didn’t like any of
these gels at Tuesday’s Assembly why should I like one
tonight?”

The king sat rigid in his throne. He had had
it with his boasting brother, the duke. Little Lord Huffy Jr., as
the diaper-clad infant was called by his grandfather, was a blobby,
useless little clot. Not at all like his own grandchild would be.
If Prince Bertram would just get to it already.

Bertie looked down the line of young women
who waited to be received with glittering impatience. The end was
probably twenty minutes away yet. Ridiculous.

His friends at Uni didn’t
have to put up with this. He’d give his honorary degree
and
honorary post in the
navy for the privilege of going into trade and not having to
produce an heir. There wasn’t a new face in the whole line. Next
year, several eligible ladies would enter their first seasons. This
year they were kids. Next year he could marry them.
Preposterous.

The torture had to end sometime.

He turned his head in the middle of his
introduction to Harriet, his third cousin who he had been playing
tennis with just last Saturday, and spied his father. The king was
glowering. “Alright,” Bertie thought, “the next girl who sneezes
when she is presented to me is the one I will marry.” Harriet
stepped away without sneezing.

Clorinda, a visiting princess from the
continent looked rather fetching. She showed rather more décolleté
than the other girls and had rosy cheeks. He puckered his lips and
blew down at her when he said hello, hoping her nose would
tickle.

She cringed, but she didn’t sneeze.

Rosalind was a pretty blonde who liked to
drive a four-in-hand. She was flushed, and the tip of her nose was
red. Maybe she was coming down with something. He dusted his
shoulder with his gloved hand, but the motion didn’t move much
air.

Rosalind did not sneeze.

Allisande, an heiress with a French mother
and an indifferent seat on the hunt, was next. She sniffled a
little which gave him a jolt.

She did not sneeze and he felt his relief
acutely.

Drucilla and Anastasia were next, together
like always. Not much money and not much name. How they still
managed to get invited to these shindigs was beyond him. Good
sorts, and all, but not really up to it. They shuffled each other
to be first. Anastasia, a rusty brunette with a towering head of
someone else’s hair, was first.

He had never seen hair
reach such dizzying
heights. While she did
her courtesy he stared at the bouffant, wondering how she had
managed to get it to stick to her pointy little head.

“Hello, Bertie.” She winked.

He thought that was rather forward, but she
didn’t sneeze.

Drucilla did.

He scrutinized her closely. Drucilla, eh?
She’d been on the shelf a while. They were of an age together. Her
parent despaired of her marrying as much as the king despaired of
Bertie. She didn’t appear to have fussed much over today’s affair.
It was the same old dress he had seen three times this season. Not
that he made a habit of recalling dresses, but as Drucilla wore
this season’s only vermillion tartan, it was easy to remember.

He recalled himself in time and handed her
the kerchief from his pocket. She curtseyed.

“Save the first dance, will you?” he
asked.

“Sure.” She didn’t hide her surprise. She
was a round girl, quite round really. But she was energetic and
when she danced, depending on the cut of her dress, one had a
wonderful view of her generous, bouncing bosom. She was devoted to
lute playing and folk music in general. Her laugh was braying. What
would his father say?

She bounced off after her sister, her
exposed bosom like two very nice Christmas puddings. He liked
pudding.

The line of young ladies
for presentation was not endless. Only Georgette Price, daughter of
his mother’s cousin and heiress to the textiles fortune in the
North made him question his decision. But then he knew for certain
that Georgette had cheated at faro. He had stood second for her
brother on account of it. He would rather deal with a braying laugh
than
constantly shield a blotted
reputation.

The prince and Drucilla led out the first
dance. More than one matron muttered behind her fan on that basis
alone.

“Thanks for the dance Bertie.” Drucilla
grinned a dimply, wry, smile. “It’s been ages since I’ve started an
evening. You’ve made Mother’s night and that’s the truth.”

“But not yours?”

“Of course mine. I’m sure
that goes without mention. Who asks me to dance the first dance?
Never
The Prince
.
Not since we were in second form and our evenings ended at seven.”
Her cheeks flushed a very sweet pink.

“You know of course, why father is giving
this last dance of the season?” Bertie pulled her a little closer,
his hand on her very firm waist—the product of vigorous
corseting.

“It’s the same every year, isn’t it? Do you
want the scoop? I know who is pining for whom and whose funds could
use an injection from the national treasury. I can help you fill
your card strategically.” When Drucilla laughed, people turned
their heads, but her eyes almost disappeared in the crinkles her
smile produced. Bertie couldn’t help it. He laughed too.

“Why don’t I just fill my card with you?”
They had been mates, not so long ago. He’d rather spend the evening
with a mate than dodging simpering girls.

“Don’t be daft. Can you imagine the ideas
you’d give them all?” Drucilla clucked at him.

“Well? What’s wrong with giving that idea?
I’ve got to get married someday and you don’t seem mad for some
other fellow.” Bertie looked over her shoulder at the room swirling
with beautiful, single, rich, girls who looked and sounded pretty
much exactly the same. “Won’t you have me?”

“Go on with you.” She swatted his shoulder
with her overly worked lace glove. “Take Tilly over there instead.
Not above twenty years on her and over forty thousand pounds when
she comes of age. She’d pay for the privilege if you asked her to.”
Drucilla blushed a color that did not go at all well with her
dress. So many society ladies were incapable of honest
embarrassment. No fluttering fainting fits and bottles of smelling
salts for Drucilla, Just a heated magenta face. He liked it. It
seemed healthy.

“Tilly doesn’t know Nelson from Wellesley.
What would I do with a chit like that?” He shook his head.

“Most men know what to do with a Tilly
without having to ask. Well, and if I thought you wouldn’t regret
it the next day I’d agree in a heartbeat. You know I would.”
Drucilla kept her eyes glued to the distant wall, her color only
increasing.

“That’s what I like about you, Dru. You talk
like a mate. I’d take a lifetime of that. Do have me, eh? You’d be
doing me a great favor, wot.”

“Well if it’s a favor, then of course. But I
won’t mention it. I’ll let you get over the intoxicating wit and
pied feathers I’ve won you with. You can wake regretting your
choice and none will be the wiser.”

“They will too.” He grabbed her tartan waist
with both hands and pulled her in for a vigorous kiss.

She didn’t pull away in a missish protest,
so he kept kissing her, not at all disappointed in her full, warm
lips.

The king in his elevated throne sat up. He
peered through his golden monocle. The pairs of dancers stood like
statues, gaping at the spectacle. “Cor!” He pressed his gloved hand
to his forehead. “That’s what I call out of the frying pan and into
the fire!”

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Traci Tyne Hilton is the author of
The
Mitzy Neuhaus Mystery
Series
, The
Plain Jane Mystery Series
, and
one of the authors in
The Tangle Saga
series of science
fiction novellas. She was the Mystery/Suspense Category winner for
the 2012 Christian Writers of the West Phoenix Rattler Contest, a
finalist for Speculative Fiction in the same contest, and has a
Drammy from the Portland Civic Theatre Guild. Traci serves as the
Vice President of the Portland chapter of the American Christian
Fiction Writers Association.

Traci earned a degree in History from Portland State
University and still lives in the rainiest part of the Pacific
Northwest with her husband the mandolin playing funeral director,
their two daughters, and their dog, Dr. Watson.

More of Traci's work can be found at
http://www.tracihilton.com

Chapter 23

Hilda’s Song

By John Daulton

Hilda’s large head bobbed to the tinny
rapture of the banjo player’s song. His fingers flickered in the
dim light of the Busted Jug’s rickety stage and filled her with
joy. She smiled without knowing it, her eyes partly glazed, the
twang and melody carrying her mind away while the bass thud-thumped
and drove her booted foot to stomping on the floor. Something about
that man’s hands upon those strings enchanted her; the way his
fingers danced like mercurial feet, his knuckles pulsing and the
writhing ecstasy of the veins visible beneath his skin. Every
movement that he made, every plucky note caused her to fill up
inside. The music poured into her, warmed her like a lover slipping
into bed. She wiped moisture from the corners of her eyes, sprung
there unexpected and despite the song being as happy as could
be.

The banjo player was older than she by at
least ten years, his gray hair and bolo tie evidence of a
generation well on the decline. But his music was youthful and
masculine, as masculine as anything she’d ever heard, and as his
hands ran across that banjo, as they touched those strings so
splendidly, Hilda, for the first time in twenty-eight years, wanted
to be touched as well.

The song ended, and she stared into the
darkness while the band, a visiting trio called The End of the
Road, took a ten minute break. She had to shake her head to break
herself from the trance, a reverie that held her happily until it
occurred to her that he wasn’t playing anymore.

“
That’s music,” she said
when her mind cleared. She looked across the crude plank table at
her friend Edith Miller, who was draining the last of double shot
of Jack. “A fine shame they only gonna play one night.”

“
Yep. They
good.”

Hilda turned and spat a thick stream of
tobacco juice on the floor, missing the spittoon by at least an
inch and a half. Edith heard the spit hit the floor and fixed Hilda
with curious, narrowed eyes.

“
What?” said Hilda to that
look.

Edith glanced down at the spittoon and
raised an eyebrow.

“
I reckon that feller got
me distracted some.” Hilda drained the last of her drink and wiped
her mouth with her thick wrist.