The Return. Dinah McCall

which Frank Joslin had died.

      “Yeah,” Jubal growled. “There ain’t nothing they can prove. The chimney was cracked. The house caught on fire. Case closed.”

      One of Turner’s brothers laughed. The sound was harsh and ugly. How could men rejoice in another man’s death? He listened as another round of whiskey was poured into glasses.

      “Here’s to the Blairs. Right’s on our side, and it’s over. God is good,” Jubal growled.

      Turner listened as the light clink of glasses drifted into the hall where he was standing. His belly clenched. God couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the hate that had entrapped them all.

      “Well now, Pa, it ain’t exactly over,” Charles said. “Don’t forget, there’s still a Joslin somewhere on the mountain.”

      “Hell, Charles, she’s only a woman. Women don’t count,” Hank added.

      Jubal’s words came out of his throat in a growl. “That’s where you’re wrong, boys. Women are the worst. They’re the breeders.”

      “I heard tell she ain’t been seen since the cabin burned,” John added. “Maybe she’s gone.”

      “And maybe she’s not,” Jubal said. “All I can say is, if I see her…”

      The implied threat was left hanging as the men downed the rest of their drinks, while Turner’s fear for Fancy increased. This was worse than he’d imagined. He had to get her out of these mountains tonight. He straightened his shoulders and jutted his chin forward in a manner not unlike that of the old man himself, then strode into the room.

      “The dogs are watered.”

      Jubal turned and lifted a glass in Turner’s direction. “Help yourself, boy. I reckon you’re way past old enough.”

      Turner’s heart twisted. The first time his father had offered him a step into the family circle, and he was going to have to refuse it.

      “Not in the mood for drink,” he said shortly. “I’m going down into Camarune shortly. Is there anything you’d be needing?”

      Jubal frowned.

      “We’re goin’ huntin’, boy!”

      “That’s fine by me,” Turner said. “But I got other things to do.”

      Jubal’s frown deepened. “Like what?”

      Turner’s gut knotted, but he thought of Fancy and stood firm.

      “Daddy, I’m twenty-one years old. I don’t suppose I need your permission to go into town.”

      John laughed and slapped his little brother on the back.

      “He’s right, Daddy. Besides, Turner never did have the stomach for blood.”

      Any other time, the jeer would have cut Turner to the quick, but not this evening.

      “You’re right, John. I don’t savor killin’ just for the sake of the sport.”

      Jubal snorted beneath his breath. He was more than a little surprised by his youngest son’s refusal and didn’t know whether to push the issue or not. But the whiskey was warm in his belly, and his other sons were more than willing to pick up the slack.

      “Good enough,” Jubal said, and set down his glass. “It’ll be dark in less than an hour, and I’m hankerin’ to hear Little Lou’s bugle.”

      Turner exhaled softly as the men filed out of the house, leaving him alone. He bolted toward his room and dragged his suitcase from under the bed. Now all he had to do was wait until they were gone. He felt better than he had in months.

      But time passed, and Turner’s father and brothers had yet to leave. He kept glancing at the clock and then out the window, wondering when they would leave. Nightfall had long since come and gone, and they were still outside, laughing and talking. The dogs were wired, knowing that a hunt was imminent. They kept weaving themselves and their leashes into knots. Turner’s gut was in a knot of its own, thinking of Fancy, alone in that damned cave. Then he took a deep breath, making himself relax. This time tomorrow they would be in Memphis, and she would be safe in his arms and sleeping between clean white sheets.

      He looked around his room, conscious of the comfort of his bed and the warmth within the walls. Then he thought of where she was and felt shame. As a man, he should have been able to stand up to Jubal and tell him what was in his heart, but his fear for them both kept him silent.

      He paced within the room, growing more anxious by the minute, until, suddenly, the sounds outside began to fade. He ran to the window. The bobbing lights of the lanterns and flashlights the men were carrying were disappearing in the trees.

      With a great sigh of relief, he grabbed his suitcase and a flashlight, started out the door, then stopped. He couldn’t just up and disappear without telling his father something. Knowing Jubal Blair, he would take it in his head to come and find him unless he gave him a reason not to. He needed to leave Jubal a note.

      Turner kept it brief. No need volunteering any information that his father didn’t need to know—just that he was leaving to work in Memphis and he would be in touch. He propped the note in the center of the kitchen table between the salt and pepper shakers and then paused on his way out the door, giving the old house one last look.

      He’d been born here, and except for a very few times, had spent every night of his life under this roof. But it hadn’t been a home for more years than he could count, especially after his mother had died. He glanced toward the fireplace to the picture of his mother on the mantel. He remembered vividly the day it had been taken—an Easter Sunday when he was sixteen years old. She was wearing a pale green dress and standing beside the lilac bush near the back door. Momma had loved that lilac bush. Oddly enough, after her death, it hadn’t come out. Jubal had cursed it, blamed it on the hard winter they’d had, then dug it up and tossed it in the hog pen. With that gesture, his father had destroyed the last remnants of her presence in this house.

      He took the picture from the mantel and put it in his suitcase. As he turned to go, he saw his rifle hanging on the wall above the hall table. He would have little use for such a thing in Memphis, but his grandfather had given it to him for Christmas when he was twelve. He didn’t want to leave it behind. He lifted it down, absently noting it was loaded. With one quick motion, he flipped on the safety, then slung the strap over his shoulder. Moments later, he was in the yard and heading toward the woods. The flashlight bumped the side of his leg as he walked, but it would be a while before he would need it. The moon was bright, and he knew these woods well. In the distance, he could hear the intermittent yips of his brothers’ hounds as they scattered through the trees in search of prey. Somewhere farther along, his father and brothers would set up camp, build themselves a fire, and then trade lies and whiskey until the pack struck a trail. After that, the thrill of the chase would be on. There was a small part of him that regretted the fact that he would never know the camaraderie of such a gathering again, but his love for Fancy was far too strong for the regret to be anything more than fleeting. Fancy was his life. He didn’t need anything more than her—and their child. So he walked, confident of his plans and anxious to feel the brush of Fancy’s breath against his face.

      

      The fire in the cave was little more than glowing embers when Fancy roused. Disoriented, she looked into the darkness above her head and panicked. Almost instantly, the baby at her side wiggled, then gave a soft squeak, and she remembered.

      It was late, so late. Turner should have been here long ago. What could possibly be keeping him? She threw back the blanket and scooted to the edge of the bed before trying to sit. Almost at once, her head began to spin, and she closed her eyes and took a slow deep breath, willing herself to a calm she didn’t feel. With tender movements, she laid the baby in the middle of the cot and then made herself stand, using the back of a chair for a crutch. She needed water and food, and she needed to get to a doctor. God only knew what horrible infections she had exposed herself and her baby to by giving