The Return. Dinah McCall

in the midst of her last days had been more than he could do. So they’d waited. And they’d waited. It had taken Esther Blair six months to die, and with each passing month, Fancy Joslin’s condition had become more and more apparent. Her uncle Frank had been shocked and then incensed, demanding each day for her to name the man who’d wronged her. But giving up Turner’s name would have been the end of them both, so she’d remained silent, suffering Uncle Frank’s condemnation instead.

      And then came the fire. After that, she’d been certain that Turner would come and take her away. He’d come, all right, but not as she’d expected. He’d hidden her in this cave, asking her to trust him for a few days. He had some money coming to him from a job he’d just finished and they would need it when they left. Telling him no was impossible, which was most of the reason she was in the shape she was in. So, two months from delivery, she hid. But the days had turned into weeks, and now it was too late.

      Weak and aching from the trauma of the birth, Fancy raised up on one elbow, looking at her baby through a blur of angry tears, then fell back onto the makeshift cot, clutching the child against her belly. Damn Jubal Blair. She and Turner should have been in Memphis by now.

      The baby’s weak cry stopped her thoughts. She raised herself up again in sudden panic. But the baby had stopped crying and her eyes were fixed upon the dancing shadows of the dwindling fire. Fancy stroked the tiny head and the cap of thick black hair, marveling at the sheer perfection of her and Turner’s love. Her sweet Kentucky drawl broke the silence in the cave.

      “You listen to me, baby girl. Your daddy and I are going to get you out of here. I swear on my life that you will not be raised in this hate.”

      The baby turned toward the sound of her mother’s voice, as she must have done many times within the womb. Fancy’s heart contracted with a sweet ache she wouldn’t have believed. With shaking hands, she traced the shape of the baby’s face and knew the power of a mother’s love. And, in that moment, she also knew a great shame. She closed her eyes against tears, wondering how she’d come to this—married in secret, hiding in an abandoned cave like some animal, instead of living in a home like normal people.

      And therein lay her problem. Normalcy had no place in her life—not as long as she stayed in Camarune.

      Something moved beyond the shadow of the firelight. She clutched the baby in fright, staring fearfully into the shadows. Suddenly a small possum waddled past on its way toward the mouth of the cave. She dropped back onto the pillow with a shudder and clasped the baby close to her breasts.

      “My God, little girl, what have we done to you?”

      Then she rolled the baby more tightly into the blanket and snuggled her close. With a pain-racked sigh, she stretched out upon the cot.

      “I need to rest,” she said, more to herself than to the baby. “Daddy will come, and then we’ll get you out of this awful place.”

      The dark and absence of sound within the cave where mother and baby lay must have been reminiscent of the womb that the baby had just exited. With hardly more than a squeak, the tiny girl turned toward the steady beat of her mother’s heart and slept.

      

      Turner’s suitcase was under his bed. His money was in his pocket. On a normal day, Jubal Blair wouldn’t have been anywhere close to the house, but for some reason, today had been different. Turner felt less than the man he should have been for not standing up to his father. But he’d been raised too many years under the looming shadow of Jubal’s wrath to break free from it so easily now. To make matters worse, he was worried sick about Fancy. Keeping her hidden in the cave like an animal shamed him. God had decreed that man should protect the woman who was his wife. He should feed her and care for her. Stand by her side in the day and lie by her side in the night. But Turner didn’t just have a wife to consider. There was the feud.

      He’d been raised on hate. Hate for anyone with the name Joslin. Only the first time he’d seen Fancy Joslin, he’d fallen in love. As he remembered, she’d been nine years old to his eleven. Even then, they’d known to keep their friendship to themselves. By the time Fancy was sixteen, Turner had known she was the woman for him. But sneaking the occasional meeting in the woods was dangerous. Their love had stayed true, but their meetings had been sporadic. Until Fancy told him about the baby.

      Anger at their situation had spurred him to a daring he might never have achieved otherwise. One night, long after midnight had come and gone, they met on the mountain beneath the overhang of Pulpit Rock and pledged their lives and love. After that, leaving was a foregone conclusion.

      He shivered with excitement, thinking about their child. By this time next month, they would have a whole new life. He imagined himself bathing her, watching her learn to walk and talk, hearing her laughter, protecting her as he would protect her mother.

      A raucous shout startled him, and he quickly moved to the window. It was his brother John. John’s hounds were in the back of the truck. That explained why Jubal had stayed close to the house today. They were going to run the dogs.

      He turned, staring nervously at his bed and picturing the packed suitcase hidden beneath, then smoothed sweaty palms down the front of his jeans. Coon hunts were nothing new. Just a part of family tradition in the mountains. And it wasn’t so much the kill that Jubal Blair craved as it was the camaraderie of the event.

      Turner’s belly drew tight as he glanced out the window again. Another delay in getting to Fancy. Then a new thought occurred. Maybe he wouldn’t go on the damned hunt. He would make some excuse and when they were gone, he would slip away, get Fancy, and they would be off this mountain before sunup.

      But what to tell Jubal Blair was another problem. What could he say that would get him out of the hunt? He saw his father shaking John’s hand and then helping him get the dogs out of the truck bed. The hounds were antsy and swarmed around the men’s legs like blowflies on a dung heap. Turner watched his father turn toward the house and thought to himself that if he lived to be one hundred, he would never be the force his father was. The man radiated power, from the thick shock of gray hair, to his broad, weathered stature.

      “Turner, your brother is here!”

      Turner winced at the underlying demand in his father’s voice. Jubal still treated him like a boy. Why didn’t his father realize he was a grown man, too? Turner sighed. He’d lived through many nights like the one that was being set up. Before long, his other two brothers, Hank and Charles, would surely arrive. Hank with Old Blue, and Charles with his Little Lou. All three brothers swore their hounds were the best, and each time they were together, it was a battle of whose dog struck trail first, rather than the thrill of a hunt. Turner knew that Jubal liked the underlying discord. It fed the anger that lived in his heart.

      “Turner! Damn it, boy, I’m talkin’ to you!” Jubal yelled again.

      Turner sighed. He was twenty-one years old. His daddy shouldn’t be talking to him like that anymore. Even as he was thinking it, he caught himself moving quickly through the small frame house as he headed for the door.

      “There you are, boy!” Jubal said. “Get these dogs some water.” Then he patted John on the back. “Come on inside, son. I’ve got a little something in the cupboard you might like to taste.”

      Turner’s sense of injustice grew. His daddy never offered him a drink of whiskey. As he headed for the well house to get a pan to water the dogs, he kept telling himself that he would never treat a child of his own the way Jubal treated him.

      Before he was through, his other two brothers had arrived with their dogs. The congregation of four-legged hunters began baying and howling at each other in what could only be described as a welcome. Turner sighed. Even they had a bond. His brothers smiled at him and waved as they walked on into the house, but they didn’t stop to talk. Turner’s indignation grew. What the hell do they think I am, hired help?

      He slammed the pan of water down on the ground, then scooted it toward the dogs with the toe of his boot. His forehead was furrowed, his posture stiff, as he stalked into the house. But his anger soon changed to fear as