Chapter Six
Mira
Desperation and weakness was going to send me scuttling back into town for the second time in as many days.
Metal and paper flopped into the palm of my hand as I upended Uncle Brady’s coffee can. He hadn’t believed in the integrity of banks. Every penny he made, he stuffed in the can.
I had learned my lesson last week, and I wasn’t going to take any chances at a repeat experience.
I would get to Jake’s Quickstop at ten in the morning after most were at work and before many were on a break for lunch.
There would still be people. That was unavoidable as there were always people at Jake’s Quickstop, but I could limit my risks.
I looked at my list with a critical eye.
The total cost should be well below what I was bringing, but I marked eggs off just to be certain.
We used to have chickens. Red and brown mottled things that kept us with fresh eggs every morning.
They would stay close to the house in hopes of food, a continuous cluck deep in their throats.
It was a soft sound that had become a part of my daily soundtrack.
The oldest stopped producing, and the eggs dwindled to nothing.
When there were no more to be had, I had cooked the chickens.
Desperate times and measures and all. The rooster had been the last to go.
He was mean as sin, but I had liked him.
Silence had replaced their music and made the place feel too quiet. Too lonely.
I had tried to buy new chickens from one of the local farmers.
He had refused me because his wife thought I would bring bad luck on their home and crops if he did business with me.
It was the first and last time I tried to purchase anything outside of Jake’s Quickstop.
Bernard wasn’t a Mira-fan, but he didn’t make the sign of the cross when I entered his store, and he charged me fairly. That was good enough for me.
I shoved the money in my pocket and headed for the barn. I liked to call it a barn, but it was really just a rough half-room with a partial roof to shelter the horses at the edge of their corral. Once Bobby was saddled, we headed down the trail that would lead us to the truck.
The truck was called the Green Monster, and rightly so.
It was a Ford, and old, and had originally been purchased by my grandfather to help with work on the acreage that had been passed down from his father and his father’s father before him.
My grandfather had been well-liked in town.
The crazy didn’t start seeping through the limbs of our family tree until Uncle Brady’s generation.
It had been my uncle’s bright idea to fence in the gates and make our land impassible by vehicle.
He did it right after the adoption officials started arriving regularly, and his plan worked.
Hiking out to Narnia wasn’t an attractive option for most underpaid social workers with stacks of paperwork, sketchy cell phone reception, too many kids to keep up with, and high heels.
So to go into town, I had to get creative and stash the truck just outside our property line.
The places that weren’t rusted on the truck were colored an attractive pastel green. I loved it, even with all of its imperfections. No one in the world could get it started but me. There were nine tricks to getting that old engine to turn over, and I could do them all without even thinking.
I tied off the horse and hopped into the unlocked truck. I never worried about someone stealing it. They wouldn’t be able to start it, and if they did get the idea to hotwire the beast, The Green Monster would still demand five more tricks be performed before it graced them with first gear.
I rolled down the window as I hit the edge of the dirt road to better flip off the green sign that identified my street. Who in their right mind would name a street Dark Corner Road besides the devil himself? I was pretty sure it’s where the witch rumors had originated.
To keep my hands from shaking, I clenched the wheel until my knuckles were white.
Every mile that brought me closer to town terrified me a little more.
It was always like this. I tried to talk to myself to calm my nerves, but the tremble in my voice annoyed me and made me feel weaker than I already did.
Caleb’s face flickered across my mind, and my hands relaxed.
He was in town. I was sure of it. He’d have to stay at the clinic for a while with injuries as bad as his.
That was if they hadn’t shipped him off to a fancy hospital in the city.
The thought made me nervous again. It wasn’t like I would get to see him.
The thought of visiting him in the clinic with all of those people around was terror-inducing.
I pushed the gas down with the tips of my toes. I just wanted to get this over with.
I’d always loathed the bell above the door at Jake’s Quickstop. Pushing the door open as softly as I could never helped. If anything, it made it louder, but I always tried, anyway. Bernard glared at me as I slid through the barely open door. Still mad, then.
I glanced up to see two small groups of people sitting near the dining area. I puffed a little sigh of relief and grabbed a shopping basket.
I could hear everything they said. Not on purpose. I hated eavesdropping, but in an ironic twist of fate, I had been born with superior hearing. Sometimes, I wished I couldn’t hear at all. Nobody talked to me, anyway.
“I heard she cooked old man Fletcher up for dinner and saved his bones for soup,” a girl around my age said to her two friends in a whisper-yell.
“Well, I heard he isn’t dead at all and that Caleb McCreedy was out there investigating. And that’s when she sicced her pet bear on him so he wouldn’t find out she’d been torturing her uncle all this time,” another one said.
I pretended I didn’t hear them and that their words didn’t sting. “Where’s the damned peanut butter,” I grumbled, impatient for my escape.
Everyone quieted at the sound of my voice, and I barely avoided my legs locking up on me. Stupid trembling hands.
Something landed with a splat against my ankle.
All six people at the tables snickered, so I couldn’t begin to guess who threw it.
I pulled a soggy noodle off my leg and looked around for somewhere to put it.
Everyone laughed harder—probably because I looked like I was glaring at the soup cans for someone to blame.
Hanging the fettuccini over the side of my basket, I finished my shopping and headed for the front.
Every step brought relief because I was farther away from my tormentors.
Bernard rang up the groceries and bagged them as I counted out exact change. He’d never before talked to me other than what was necessary to exchange goods and money, so I jumped when he said my name.
“Yes?” I sounded terrified and small.
“I’m sorry about your uncle.”
“Yeah,” one of the girls from the back chimed in. “Now you’re all out of family to eat.” She and her friends pealed into laughter.
“Eat your food and let her be,” Bernard snapped.
His voice was loud and commanding, and it scared me. I tried to smile my thanks to him, but it came out as a lip tremble instead, and I scurried out of Jake’s before anyone said anything else.
I clutched onto my single bag of groceries and looked down the street.
I don’t know why. I always went straight for my truck with my head down, but for some reason I couldn’t help looking for Caleb.
In the daylight, I could see the sterile looking clinic with its whitewashed brick.
Despite my panic, I moved down the sidewalk to my left.
What would I say to him? The last time I’d spoken to him, it was obvious he thought I was insane for talking about bear men.
Would he throw me out? How many people would be visiting him?
He was a McCreedy after all, so of course there would be visitors.
A loop of horrifying questions ran through my mind until I reached for the front door of the clinic.
I was surprised when the door opened suddenly from the inside.
Unable to pull my hand away quickly enough, it jammed against the unforgiving metal, making a deep thunk sound and sending pain shooting straight up my arm from where my wrist had overextended.
Hooking the groceries with an arm, I held the hurt part with my other hand like the pressure would make it feel better. I’d had much worse, but the pain was unexpected.
A girl my age appeared out of the doorway. She was wiping her eyes with a tissue, and her nose looked red from crying. Big blue eyes, light brown hair, and lightly freckled skin told me she was pretty, and I felt sad that she was leaving in tears. Maybe she had lost someone, too.
“Mira,” she said in a harsh voice. “Is it true that you stitched up Caleb McCreedy after that bear attack?”
My eyes went wide at being talked to directly. I shifted my weight from side to side and tried to peel my gaze from her angry face.
“Well?” she demanded so loudly I jumped and shrank into myself.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Her look darkened. “You only stitched up half of what needed to be done, and poorly at that. His body is ruined now.” Hate tainted every word. “He will be scarred for life, and everyone will look at his skin out of pity. Because of you.”
A shorter girl beside her put a gentle hand over her forearm. “Becca,” she said, looking around at the gathering crowd. “I think we should go.”