Whisper Falls (7 page)

“We broke up a couple of weeks ago.”

He leaned on his rake. “Do you miss her?”

My ex-girlfriend was a topic I would not discuss. I mopped my face with a towel, glad for the cover. “Not sure yet.”

Granddad grunted again. “Get the grass blower. We'll clear off the deck and the walkways.”

I finished off my bottle and grabbed the blower from the back of my truck, glad my grandfather hadn't spent much time on the Alexis thing. I liked efficiency in conversations.

After completing every task Granddad could dream up and polishing off an awesome lunch of my favorite dishes, I drove home, eager to squeeze in a training session before a visit to the falls. The sight of a black Ford SUV waiting at the curb in front of my house put a hold on the plan.

I parked the truck, exhaled a hard breath, and slid from the cab. Keefe met me halfway up the driveway.

He looked past me instead of at me. With a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, he seemed kind of fidgety.

“What do you want, Halligan?” I asked. He didn't act any happier to see me than I was to see him.

“How's training?”

As if I would tell him. “Fine.”

“Alexis dumped you.”

My inner radar went on full alert. Why did Keefe care? “I'm not dating anyone right now.”

He shuffled his feet. “Are you trying to get her back?”

“None of your damn business.”

He knew better than to fish for information from me. Every time I looked at him, my brain flashed back to middle school and memories of lying on the ground in a ring of bullies, being methodically and viciously kicked. In the bathroom. On the ball field. Behind the cafeteria. The helpless, hopeless fat kid at the mercy of thirteen-year-olds. Keefe's face had always appeared on the fringe. Had he been a bystander—or was he the ringleader, watching while the others did his dirty work?

“You still want her.” Keefe jingled his keys, his lips thinned into a superior smile. “I'm going to win.”

“We'll see.” I kept my face neutral. What were we talking about? Alexis or the race?

He shrugged and walked backwards down the driveway. “She won't be by herself very long. Guys are getting in line to have a shot at her.”

My hackles rose. That was the point of this visit. Keefe was letting me know he intended to get in that line. The urge to curse his ass slammed me, but I fought it back. Aunt Pamela had always said that being nice to the enemy was the best possible revenge. “Good luck with Alexis.”

“Yeah, I'm sure you mean that.”

The thought of them together made me smile. Her demands would completely screw up his training schedule. “Actually, I do.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Uh-huh. See you at the race.” He jumped into his truck and screeched down the street.

The conversation left me in a pissy mood, which a dozen miles of biking at top speed did nothing to fix. Back home, I cleaned up, made a fast PB&J, and jogged straight to the falls. Susanna stood in the tallest part of the cave, waiting calmly.

I had to figure out how to get her to branch out on facial expressions. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She studied me for a long moment. “You've had a peculiar day.”

“I have.” I flopped onto the rock and gestured at the one across from me. “How could you tell?”

“Your face speaks.” She sat in the middle of her rock, well away from the edge, her legs tucked beneath her skirt. “What did you do?”

“I hung out with my grandparents.” Did her face speak? If body language was seventy percent of communication, I'd be practically deaf where Susanna was concerned. “My grandmother cooked a special lunch.”

“What made your meal special?”

“The quiche.”

She frowned and shook her head.

At least I understood that gesture. I'd have to define terms again, which should've been annoying, but wasn't. Actually, it was fun, like unraveling a mystery for another person, someone who really wanted to know. “It's a pie with eggs, cheese, and ham.”

“Is this a treat?”

“Big time.” I smiled with remembered pleasure. When my grandmother pulled the pan out of the oven, I had nearly collapsed with joy. The only problem was that I couldn't eat the whole quiche by myself. Granddad wanted some, too. “What's a treat for you?”

“Eating my fill.”

Holy. Shit.

Talk about a depressing answer. And she said it matter-of-factly, like it was a normal part of her life.

I lost the smile and looked at her. Really looked at her. She didn't look hungry, but then again, she didn't look anything other than calm. How did it feel on the inside—to want and not get? Did the mind learn to ignore the stomach? I'd never had to worry about having enough food to eat. There was always plenty on the table and plenty in the fridge.

Well, I knew one thing for damn sure. She wouldn't go hungry while I was around.

“Let's try that again. If I were to bring you any treat, what would you want?”

Her gaze flicked to mine, then down. She stared into the water foaming past her rock. “You would bring me anything?”

“Yes.”

“Ice cream.” Her lashes lay like dark smudges against her cheeks. “My mistress has had it before. It sounds lovely.”

“I could bring you ice cream next time I come.”

There was a faint curve to her lips. “Whisper Falls allowed your arm to pass through, but will it permit your arm
and
a dish?”

“Yeah, there is that one little glitch.” I'd give it a try, anyway. Ice cream, probably vanilla to start with, as much as she wanted.

She shifted her legs. Grimy feet and ankles emerged from her skirt.

“Are you barefoot all the time?”

Her eyes rose warily to my face. “Yes.”

I waited, but she added nothing. If my grandfather liked how I used an economy of words, he'd love Susanna.

“Do you have shoes?”

“One pair, for the winter.” Her fingers picked at some dried mud on the curves of her calves.

Wait a minute. I focused harder.

It wasn't mud she picked at. It was dried blood. There were several thin lines of scabs criss-crossing her calves, relatively fresh, with numerous scars hinting at older wounds.

I knew the amount of force it took to cause that kind of injury. My throat burned with something sour and angry. “How did you get those marks on your legs?”

She went completely still except for her eyes. Even though she wasn't looking at me, I could see her eyes tracking down her calves. Then, slowly, she drew her legs back to her body and covered them with her skirt. “My master thrashed me.”

I swallowed hard and said, in as controlled a voice as I could, “Why did he thrash you?”

“I made a mistake.”

All voice control left. “He beat you until you bled for making a mistake?” She had so many marks. There was a hollow ringing in my ears. I'd been beaten up plenty of times, but not like that. “What kind of mistake?”

She wrapped her arms about her legs, rested her chin on her knees, and closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was light, almost dreamy. “I overslept. Breakfast was late.”

My jaw clenched so tightly, it was a wonder my teeth didn't crack. “How often does he beat you?”

“Perhaps once each month.”

I jumped to my feet, too outraged to sit still any longer. Her master was a complete asshole. A prick. A bully. How could he hit her? “What can you do about it?”

She straightened, knees down, chin high, hands folded in her lap. “There's nothing I can do. It's Mr. Pratt's right to punish me as he sees fit.”

Her response put my outrage on pause. Beating her was his
right?

Hell no.

Why wasn't she pissed? This couldn't be legal in any century. I faced away from her to fume at the trees. After sucking in a couple of deep breaths, I spun around. “I can't believe he can just whip you, and it's okay.”

“To whom shall I turn?”

“Don't you have policemen or mayors or somebody in charge?”

“Indeed we do, and it does me little good. The town magistrate is Mr. Pratt's
uncle!”

Damn. That did make things tougher, but maybe she'd given in too soon. “Have you asked the uncle for help?”

“Mr. Worth has seen my wounds, yet he does nothing. I shall not humiliate myself further by begging.” She stood, cheeks flushed, face grim, hands on hips. “You can't tell me masters in your world don't thrash their servants.”

“Americans don't have masters anymore. We have employers. And if the government finds out they hit their workers, they're thrown in jail.”

She snorted. “I don't believe people have changed so much. The strong will always hurt the weak, and there will never be enough justice to stop them.”

We glared at each other across the divide, breathing hard. Breathing in rhythm.

She looked away first, arms dropping. Her face slipped into its familiar, neutral expression. “In my world, I have no recourse. I have learned to accept it. Since my failure to act offends you, I shall go.”

Her weary, softly spoken words doused me like ice water. What was wrong with me? Had I really just argued with the victim? Like I didn't know how it felt to be one?

“No, Susanna. Wait.” I threw myself at the waterfall, but it stopped me at my wrists. “I'm sorry.”

She hesitated, then held her hands next to mine. Hers were rough and red, the nails dirty and broken.

“Our worlds are very different,” she said, her voice flat.

The falls pushed me upright on my rock, away from Susanna, as if protecting her from my stupidity. What an idiot I was. Even the falls were disappointed in me. “I shouldn't have yelled. I just hate to think of him hurting you.”

“I don't like to think about it, either. Therefore, I don't.” She turned away from me and walked to the cliff.

Watching her climb the rock wall was amazing. She had such grace and strength. I wanted her to come back, tomorrow and the next day and every day after that. Had I completely screwed things up with my mouth?

“Don't leave pissed.”

“If pissed means angry, have no concern.” She smiled from high above me. A slow, sad smile. “I had
pissed
beaten out of me long ago.”

The argument with Mark wove through my thoughts, leaving me unsettled and confused. I rose well before dawn and crept on quiet feet to the kitchen.

With the porridge and tea warming on the hearth, I had begun to add pork to a pot of beans when the clatter of wheels and a horse's hooves caught my attention. I straightened and turned. Mr. Pratt loomed in the door. His slave waited in the yard, standing quietly beside the wagon.

Mr. Pratt tossed a wide square of coarse cloth onto the worktable. “Pack bread and cheese for the Negro.”

It was too early for Hector's breakfast. Indeed, it was too early for our master to be stirring. “Is Hector visiting somewhere?”

“I sold him.”

Sold him?
I pressed my lips together to stifle my surprise, my gaze darting to Hector. He stared at the ground, shoulders hunched.

“Be quick, Susanna.” My master spun around and stalked from the building. As he passed the black boy, he said, “Mind the horse until I get back.”

Once Mr. Pratt had disappeared into the main house, I hurried to the door and studied Hector. There was a new, blood-crusted gash curling along the side of his neck.

I couldn't imagine what he'd done to earn this punishment. “Do you know where you're going?”

Hector bobbed his head once. “Mr. Jasper Bell.”

I knew the family well enough. The Bells lived a half hour's walk west of town, on the road to Hillsborough. There were two other slaves already on the farm. “Mr. Bell is a kind man.”

The boy raised his solemn gaze to mine. “Yes.”

“He raises horses. You may like it there.”

“Yes.”

I smiled. “Let me prepare your food.”

After setting a round loaf of bread and a slab of cheese in the center of the cloth, I frowned in dismay. The meal seemed so forlorn, a sad farewell to our Hector. I glanced through the front kitchen door. Mr. Pratt remained within the main house. I slipped into the pantry and grabbed some dried apples and a hunk of ham. Slicing a hole in the bottom of the loaf, I stuffed the extra items inside where my master wouldn't see.

After wrapping the package, I carried it out to the boy. He gave me a conspiratorial smile.

Mr. Pratt erupted from the house and strode swiftly toward us. “Get in.”

Hector nodded and climbed into the back of the wagon.

“Hold breakfast until I return,” Mr. Pratt said and snapped the reins.

I waited as the two of them disappeared into the shadows, my surprise being replaced with alarm. Why had our master sold his slave? Hector was strong and able. He had tended both the garden and the animals and had often helped in the mill. Who would do the work now?

The normal mealtime came and went. It wouldn't take long for my mistress to send a messenger to discover what was wrong.

A girl's skipping steps approached the building.

“Susanna,” Dorcas said, as if she were singing.

“Good morning to you, too.” I gestured her nearer. “Why have you come?”

“Mama wants her tea. Is it ready?”

“It is, indeed, but your papa hasn't returned from his errand. So we must wait.”

“Oh, very curious.” She brightened. “Where did he go?”

“I'm sure he'd want to tell you himself.”

The wagon heaved past the kitchen. Dorcas ran to the doorway and watched it stop at the barn. “Papa took the horse out?”

“He did.”

“I shall warn Mama.” She ran at full speed to the main house, the door slamming behind her.