The Steward (6 page)

“This can’t be happening to me,” I whimpered, tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Help!” I tried to scream. The cry came out muffled and weak. My inner voice taunted me again.
And who is going to hear you?

“I’m being completely pathetic.” Panic turned to anger. “If you calm down, you’ll figure this out.” I sounded high pitched and uneven. I could feel the blood filling the skin of my face, tightening and stretching it to the limit.

Once again, I attempted to move my left arm. I did it more slowly than before, feeling everything I could. Rubbing it against the cool, dry wall, the display light from my watch came on. I was indeed stuck in the hole at the bottom of the room, but the light seemed like a small victory. The flashlight was about a foot past my fingertips. With slow and deliberate movements, I found that I could turn my head about forty-five degrees to the left and right but no more. After the light from my watch went out, pain began to register from a wound on the back of my head.

For several minutes I experimented with different parts of my body—anything to get out—but nothing worked. There was nothing to grab, no leverage to push against, and no way to back myself out—I was wedged tightly and hung up on my backpack. Each attempt to move raised my heart rate and left me short of breath.

A tingling sensation ran down my cheek, and the image of a spider crossed my mind. Frantically rubbing my watch on the wall, it lit up once more. There weren’t any spiders, but I noticed something else that raised my panic level. It was the time—fifteen minutes before ten, nearly nine hours until anyone would come home. My stomach convulsed, and the sound of blood pumping in my ears was torture.
Who knows how long it will take before anyone notices I’m missing?

I fought the urge to sob, and focused on the ladder. “Okay, just calm down.” Aunt May, Mom and Dad would know I was gone. Aunt May would have everyone check the caves—she sent me here—and they’d find the ladder. Once they found the ladder, it would only be a matter of time before they found me. Besides, I left a chalk trail that would lead them right to me.

Pessimism crept in, though, and I worried that Mom and Dad wouldn’t think to search the cave even if they found that ladder. After all, nobody made a bigger deal about hating caves than me. They’d never believe I came down here by myself.

“God, why do I complain so much?”

Focused on staying calm, I practiced taking slower breaths. It worked, and I managed to suppress the constant urge to fill my lungs.

“I’m going to choke Aunt May,” I whimpered. “Yes, I’m going to choke her. ‘The secret ta the first trial’s in the caves, Maggie,’” I said in my best Aunt May imitation.
Yes, and here I am. Some secret.

At some point, somewhere in my mind, it registered that a lot of time had gone by, so I hit my watch again—10:17 am. My right arm was beginning to go numb while pins and needles pricked my fingers and palm.
How long can I lay on it before I suffer permanent damage?
That train of thought was a mistake too, so I decided to think about something else.
This is one big negative mark against frickin’ Arkansas.

Ten, twenty, maybe thirty minutes later I drifted off—I refused to accept that I might have passed out. When I woke up, my mind flashed back to Aunt May in the gazebo. She’d said, “Remember, things aren’t always how they appear. With faith, Maggie, ya can move mountains.”

I pictured the stone she’d given me, and remembered that I stuck it in my pocket. Working patiently, I could move my right hand just enough to feel it, sort of, despite the numbness. Concentrating on nothing but my fingers, I grabbed at the bottom of the stone through the material of the pocket and worked it up to the top until it came out in my palm. It was smooth to the touch, and a little warm.

While I held the stone, I laid still and concentrated on taking slow, shallow breaths before worrying about what to do next. It seemed important to get through this one step at a time without panicking again. My mind wandered as I listened to the steady rhythm of my breath and the drum of my heartbeats. I pictured Gavin—so incredibly beautiful. I wanted to think about the moment I met him for a little while—maybe that would pass the time until someone, anyone, could find me.

When I met Gavin Byrne…

The day of the snowstorm, Sara—Aunt May’s life-long friend and neighbor—had taken us all to meet Gavin and his parents, Sherman and Victoria Byrne.
Sara was a tiny, graceful woman who lived across the cove in a small, limestone cottage with a thatched roof and pale blue window boxes.

She was very pretty for an older woman—long, curly, pure-white hair, smooth skin, and coal-black eyes set in lush, golden lashes. I was at least six inches taller than her, so I put her at about five-foot-two. Built like a dancer, with a dancer’s graceful movements, she seemed to float everywhere. I was taken aback by how healthy she looked when we met, especially in contrast to Aunt May. It didn’t seem fair, really—one friend weak and frail while the other could twirl through the forest with ease.

I met Sherman Byrne first. After a sleigh ride—a horse drawn sleigh ride—to the Byrne’s cottage, he met us at the front door. He was just taller than me, white-haired, and quite handsome for an older man. The
cottage was a two-story brick, timber and stucco structure with a steeply pitched wood-shake roof that, even under several inches of snow, appeared to undulate. It was so quirky it was charming, like Aunt May’s cottage, and looked like the homes I’d seen in pictures of the Cotswolds. The cottage was set in front of an ancient grove of trees, with the lake in view just beyond it. To the right of the cottage, just up a slight knoll, there was a pasture about a hundred feet wide and at least three times as deep. It was surrounded by a stacked-stone wall that looked about four or five feet tall. A small stone barn and stables stood at the back of the clearing, near a bluff. The entire scene was picturesque.

After he introduced himself, Sherman invited us to go inside where it was warm. As we started toward the house I heard the front door open.

“Gavin, son, could you tend to the horses?” Sherman asked.

I froze in my tracks, looking up too quickly. Gavin smiled. I couldn’t breathe.

He pulled on an insulated coat, but not before I saw the muscles bulging under the long sleeves of his sweatshirt. My heart raced. O
h my god, he’s really just sixteen?
He was quite possibly
the
most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on. Olive skin, thick, wavy, jet-black hair and the most amazing chocolate brown eyes—his smile made my knees weak. It was an impossible smile—square jaw, cleft-chin, dimples, all surrounding perfect white teeth. The girls were right. He was gorgeous, and unreal—sixteen going on twenty-five.

Gavin stepped down off the small stoop, moving like a jaguar on the prowl, and walked up to Dad with his hand out. He appeared to be an inch or so taller than Dad, who stood six-feet-two. As they shook hands, I felt a nudge. I looked down to my left and Mitch smiled up at me, dimples at full power.

“Sis, don’t stare—you’re being rude,” he said before he let loose a rotten giggle.

“I’m not staring, so shush it,” I whispered back, hoping that Gavin hadn’t heard what Mitch said.

“Wipe your chin, Mags—you have a drool-cicle forming.” He giggled again and shifted his eyes to Gavin, then back to me, just before wiping at his chin with an exaggerated gesture. He really enjoyed this.

I bent over toward him, keeping my voice low, and said, “There are lots of places to hide bodies around this lake.”

Mitch giggled, and whispered, “Okay, okay, I’m just messin’ with ya.”

Just then Gavin walked up to us, taking Mitch’s hand when he came close. My heart raced, so I quickly went into relaxation mode. It worked. My pulse slowed and I could feel my shoulders relax under the heavy coat that seemed suddenly too tight. The butterflies in my stomach refused to fully settle down, however.

“You must be Maggie. I’m Gavin,” he said, looking me squarely in the eyes, the right side of his perfect mouth curving up enough to form a dimple in his cheek.

I managed to smile back. “Nice to meet you, Gavin.”

My voice sounded small and weak and my stomach tightened, but I stuck my mitted hand out nonetheless. He took my hand and shook it, gently but firmly.

“How do you like all this?” he asked, looking around, still holding my hand.

“It’s good I guess,” I managed, a little out of breath. “I’m not used to the cold yet, but the snow is great.”

He let go of my hand, unfortunately, but I guess he had to.

“So, you want to help me with the horses?” he asked, looking back at Mitch. As he turned his head back to me, his broad, full smile made me weak, and his full dimples were irresistible. My legs nearly buckled.

Mitch responded with his own world-class smile. “Are you serious? Dad, can I help … umm … him with the horses?” Mitch asked, pointing to Gavin.

Dad shook his head. “Not unless you can remember his name.”

Gavin leaned down a couple of inches, turning his head away from Dad, and loudly whispered, “Gavin.”

“Oh yeah, Gavin. Can I help Gavin, Dad?”

“Sure, kiddo, but don’t get in the way. Are you going to help too, Maggie?” He looked at me with a devious smile and a raised eyebrow.
Oh great, Dad saw me staring, too.

“No, I think I want heat,” I said as nonchalantly as I could.

Gavin looked me in the eyes again, just for a second, and smiled. My heart raced ahead a couple of beats. “I’ll see you inside, then. Come on, Mitch,” he said, turning to my brother. He put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder and they walked toward the sleigh.
Wow, I can’t believe I’m jealous of my kid brother.

I heard the bells on the horses jingle again as we entered the cottage. We walked past a bright and cheerful room with big, outdated but comfortable looking furniture. In the living room there were trinkets on the tables, and silver frames holding black and white family photos placed all about reflected the fire burning in the fireplace. The windows were neatly draped with clean white curtains.

Through the dining room, we entered a large country kitchen with white cupboards and butcher-block countertops. On the other end, an island separated it from a small sunroom with a fireplace on the interior wall and windows lining the other three—all of them with stunning views of the lake.

A striking woman with salt-and-pepper hair came out of a side room, drying her hands on a towel. She had dark eyes, just like Sara. Like the other Byrnes, she also had perfect teeth. She introduced herself as Victoria, Sherman’s wife.

She was a pretty woman, but in a
handsome
kind of way, with a strong, square jaw, high cheekbones, and very thin, sharply arched eyebrows. Victoria’s hair was pulled back with a silver comb. A little broad around the hips and shoulders, she nevertheless moved like she was in great shape. In fact, she looked at least fifteen-years younger than Sherman. After she took our coats, she ushered Mom and me to seats next to Aunt May by the fireplace.

They started talking, and I tried to listen but found myself instead thinking about Gavin. He was all I could think about. I fought the urge to walk back onto the front stoop to get a glimpse of him—I still couldn’t believe he was real. Maybe he wasn’t real—maybe I had cabin fever or something. That happens in the snow, right? I just came from the Miami metro area, where the most beautiful people in the world lived and played, or so I thought. The odds seemed heavily stacked against me finding the most beautiful guy in the world living just down the road in Carroll County, Arkansas … in a rented house that my family owned.

Determined to stay sane, I tried to focus, relax, and come back to reality. I managed to stop looking at the front door. Sara sat quietly in the corner, listening to Mom, Aunt May, and Victoria talk about Europe. Apparently, Victoria, Sherman, and Gavin had spent the past six years in Strasbourg, France, near the border of Germany. Victoria assured my mother that the best Riesling wines in the world were Alsatian, and made in a little village just south of Strasbourg, called Ribeauville.

Just as I tried to imagine the half-timbered, half-plastered buildings there, I heard the front door open and I jumped a little. I didn’t realize that I’d been listening for it all along.

Sara put her hand on my knee, and smiled at me. “You alright, Maggie?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Actually, I was mortified, because I had the strangest sensation that Sara was reading my mind.
Mind reading? Why not? After all, I just took a sleigh ride into 1880 and met the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen. More impossible than that? Sure. He also happens to be my neighbor, who lives just down the road … yes … down the road in the Currier and Ives lithograph I now call life. I’m sure all of this is printed on a Christmas platter somewhere
. Sara turned her head toward the door, causing me to do the same.

Gavin walked into the kitchen and a tingle spread through my legs and stomach. I looked down at my hands—they were clenched into fists. A deep breath helped me relax a little as I rubbed my palms on my jeans in an effort to dry them, but I couldn’t seem to stop rubbing them. I clasped them together but it felt awkward, so I flattened them out on my lap. Unintentionally, I started twirling my thumbs.
God, how annoying!
Finally, I just stuck them under my legs and hoped he hadn’t noticed.

When I looked back up, Gavin was staring at me, and in an instant my hands were back in my lap fidgeting around again—the traitors. A big smile formed on my face—the goofy stretched one that showed too much of my gum line like some grinning psychopath—and I quickly looked away so as not to scare him out of the room. My eyes found Mom. She studied me with a bewildered look on her face.
Can this get any worse
?

It could. Gavin took his coat off and hung it on the rack next to the door, and as he did I caught a glimpse of the smooth skin of his muscular stomach. The air left my lungs so fast I felt light-headed. Even covered up under jeans and a sweatshirt, I couldn’t take my eyes off of his Adonis-like form.
Only sixteen?
His shoulders were thick and very pronounced. As he turned around, I determined that he was as attractive from the back as the front. His waist was narrow and his thighs looked big and powerful under his faded jeans. I looked back down to my hands, trying to breathe, and ignored everyone else in the room.