The Long Road Home

Gear in first, she let the clutch up and pressed the accelerator. On up she went, past the hill, past berry bushes long since picked clean by the birds, around big rocks that had lost hold and fallen to the road. Leaf-laden branches arched low, brushing the windshield as she passed and giving off an eerie squeak. Then the road began to incline steeply and the gravel bed grew thin. Nora pressed the accelerator a tad, scuttled up twenty yards and then felt the wheels slip.

Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Her foot pressed the accelerator, yet her car slid backward down the steep dirt road. Pushing the pedal to the floor, she leaned far forward and whispered, “Go, go.”

The Volvo whined as its wheels dug to dirt, spitting gravel and swinging its rear across the narrow road like a wild bronco. She headed straight for the steep bank. Nora slammed on the brakes.

Nausea swept over her as she shifted her gaze from the steep road ahead to the shallow cliff beside her. Unable to move forward, terrified to slip backward, she was in limbo. “What do I do? What do I do?” she muttered in a litany as she laid her head against the wheel.

There was no reply. She was very alone. In the density of the forest surrounding her she sensed the presence of animals—crouched and watching. Squirrels, deer, porcupines, bears, and scores of others she couldn’t even identify. She heard every snap of a branch in the uneasy quiet. Each call of a wild bird seemed to say, “Go away. You don’t belong here.”

“Damn you, Mike!” she swore as she hit the steering wheel with her fist. A September wind caught the curse and carried it across the Vermont mountains. The echo diminished into a menacing breeze that floated through the car like the whisper of a ghost. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

Why curse Mike? It was childish—and too late. She got out a short laugh. Mike never got stuck here. He had skidded on this same road, but instead of cowering as she was, he’d grind into first gear and will that heap of metal up the mountain. Only once he didn’t make it, and that was when the snow was so deep even the tractor couldn’t get up to the house. Nonetheless, he had sold the car as worthless.

“Well, there’s no Mike now,” she blurted out as she raised her head. “This is it. Nora MacKenzie. Your first test. There’s no turning back. Home is ahead.”

She let out a ragged breath as reason took over. With a thrust of determination, she shifted into first then slowly, with ease, let out the clutch.

“Come on, you hunk o’ junk,” she said. The tires spun, whined, and slipped back a few inches. Nora bit her lip and fought the temptation to hit the gas. Instead, she yanked the wheels away from a dirt patch. With a jerk, the tires caught on the firm roadbed and lurched forward.

“Go, go, go,” she crooned as the metal beast struggled up the steep incline and slowly rounded the final curve.

With the care of a captain in shallow waters, she turned the wheels away from the loose patches of gravel and rode the crest. At last, the high-pitched drone of the engine lowered as the incline flattened and she emerged from the tunnellike foliage into the light of a clearing. She hooted triumphantly.

Ahead, perched high on her mountain overlooking the Vermont mountain ranges, was a sunlit terrace. And standing proudly in its center was her house. Nora’s heart swelled when she spied the peak of the redwood and brick structure looming high above the purple heather. Next appeared the large, angular windows divided by a mammoth beam and lastly, the broad wooden deck that stretched like a smile across the breadth of the house. Nora couldn’t help smiling in return.

Pulling up in front, she danced her fingers along the wheel. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car. She yanked on the brake and scrambled out. The air was cooler that high up and its pine-scented breezes caressed her cheeks. She inhaled deeply, tasting its sweetness. Sporting a triumphant grin, she stretched her arms wide to take into her soul the majestic Vermont mountain range, blanketed now in a homey patchwork quilt of greens, purples, reds, and oranges.

Her hands might be shaky, she thought, and maybe her knees were wobbly. So what if she didn’t know what her next step would be. She felt exultant. She had made it to the top! In an inspired rush, she tugged the gold band off her left finger and threw it with desperate force into the horizon.

“I’m home!” she cried to the mountains, bringing her arms around her chest in a bear hug. The echo bounced back to her, repeating “home, home, home,” in reassuring repetition.

From above came a deep, resonant response.

“Looking for someone?”

To Nora, it was thunder in the mountains. Fear struck her marrow like a lightning bolt. She jerked her head toward the second-story deck where a man, dressed only in a pair of worn, unbuttoned jeans, towered above her. His eyes glared with suspicion from under a towel as he rubbed his wet hair. Across his chest, droplets of water cascaded like a waterfall down a mountainside.

Questions froze in her throat. Suddenly her mountain seemed very small and she felt trapped under the harsh gaze of the man on the deck above her. He was a stranger—an intruder. She was alone and vulnerable. She had to get out and get out fast. Spinning on her heel, Nora lunged for the car door.

“Hey! You! Stop!” shouted the man as he threw off the towel and pounded down the stairs.

A scream caught in her throat as Nora leaped into the Volvo and punched down the door lock just as the man grabbed the handle. He shook the handle, cursing.

“Look, lady,” he shouted, dipping his head to peer in. Water dripped from his dark blond hair down his broken nose. On either side, his eyes blazed. She froze as would a deer in a flash of light. Only when he pressed hands as large as bear paws across her windshield did she bolt upright and insert her keys.

“Let go, mister,” she shouted. He didn’t. Nora started the engine yelling, “I’m warning you.”

“And I’m warning you.”

With shaky hands, Nora rammed the gearshift and roared into reverse, sending the man and gravel flying. Again, she slipped into first, jerked the wheel around and hit the gas. From the corner of her eye she saw him leap out of the way of the moving car, then heard him pound the rear in frustration. Nora cringed but kept her eyes on the winding drive ahead. She knew she was going too fast as she neared the first sharp curve and hit the brakes. They locked, sending the car skidding across the gravel straight toward the steep bank. She corrected the steering wheel, but the wheels had locked. She’d lost control. Her muscles tensed, her mouth opened, and time stood still. Nora was filled with the sickening knowledge that she was going to crash.

She covered her head as she hit the tree.

He heard the crash as he reached the door of the house.

“Aw, damn,” he muttered, swinging wide the door and dashing inside. Within seconds, he had grabbed his keys and jacket and was rushing toward his Jeep, buttoning his pants along the way. The gravel dug into his bare feet, but he ran without pause to the car, hit the accelerator, and sped down the road. After the first curve he spotted the blue Volvo in the ditch and sucked in his breath. The car lay buried under a broken limb and its foliage. He saw again the New York license plates.

With dread, he ran to the driver’s seat and peered in through the broken glass. The woman lay crumpled against the steering wheel. Jiggling the handle of the locked door, he cursed again. The passenger door was blocked by a heavy limb. He’d have to move it but wasn’t sure he could. Focusing on the limb, he grabbed it and heaved the limb away from the door, all the while still cursing the woman for showing up here at all. He yanked open the crumpled door and crawled in beside her.

She was beautiful. It was one of those futile thoughts that pop into one’s mind at the wrong time. Shaking his head, he reached to pick up her wrist. It was thin and fragile, like the wing of a wounded sparrow. He laid his own large, callused fingers upon her pulse. Nothing had ever felt so good as that steady beat. The stranger was now a real person.

“Just hang on, little bird,” he murmured. “I’ll get you out of here.” But how? Advice he had once heard nagged him: Never move an accident victim—something about broken bones. Well, he thought as he shifted his weight, there was only one way to find out. Carefully lifting her head, he cradled her against his shoulder. Her blond hair felt soft against his bare chest, making him uncomfortable touching her. His hands clenched and unclenched in indecision.

“This is ridiculous,” he said aloud. There was nothing to do but be professional and quick. He gingerly lifted her suede jacket and slipped his hand under the fabric. His fingers palpated her neck, shoulders, and traveled down her spine. Then, being exceedingly careful not to touch her breasts, he slipped his hand across her ribs. She really was like a sparrow, all bones and feathers. And as far as he could tell, the bones were unbroken.

His whistle of relief filled the crushed compartment. The rest he could handle. He carried the woman to his Jeep as gently as he would a handful of fresh raspberries. Resting her head on his lap, he frowned when he saw the purple swelling of the bruise on her head. He’d have to get her to a doctor, but her crashed-up Volvo blocked his path down the road. He’d better call Seth.

The Jeep’s gears screamed as he backed up the mountain in reverse, but still she didn’t awaken. He carried the petite woman into the house, thinking as he did that he’d carried sacks of grain that weighed more than she did. Without a second thought, he took her up to the master bedroom. It was quiet, private, and somehow appropriate. Balancing her against his knee, he pushed back the piles of quilts and blankets, releasing a heavy scent of mothballs. Carefully, he laid her upon the clean sheets, then as carefully, removed her fine leather shoes and covered her with a thick down coverlet.

The air was getting crisp as night set in and her hands were cold in his warmer ones. As he dialed the farm’s caretaker, his free hand rubbed hers softly, noting that her delicate fingers were void of the large, vulgar rings he despised. In fact, there was no wedding ring. That struck him as odd. She looked like the type a man would marry. How old could she be, he wondered? Twenty-five, thirty? Probably divorced—then again, maybe not.

He shook the idle thoughts from his head as Seth Johnston answered the phone. In few words the old man agreed to have the Volvo moved and help sent to the house. Talk was cheap and time expensive on the farm, and Seth liked to economize. They both preferred it that way.

After laying down the phone, he covered the woman with another blanket and tucked it under her softly rounded chin. His hand moved to her cheek and patted it, then brushed a few hairs from the purple lump on her forehead.

Staring at her face he was once again struck by her waiflike beauty. Hers was not a voluptuous appeal. Her face and golden hair were delicate, like an angel’s, making the ugly bruise swelling on her forehead menacing. There lay the truth of it, he thought with a frown. Her business here made her more a devil than an angel. A skinny runt of a devil.

The woman’s clothes, though of fine quality, were baggy and hung loose on her bony frame. Her cheeks were gaunt and her skin color was more pale than fair. She looked as if she needed a good meal.

He sighed. He had expected a Philip Marlowe type to track him down. Leave it to Agatha to send a woman.

“Lady, lady, lady,” he whispered. “Just look how your snooping has hurt us both.”

He ran his hand through his hair. The evidence was clear: New York plates, expensive clothes, patrician features. He recognized the style, he could almost give the address. And her money and status made it a sure bet she knew who he was.

“Karma,” he said with resignation. He could only accept it and pack. As soon as she was in good hands, he’d slip away.

From outside, the sound of whining engines and crunching gravel alerted him to Seth’s arrival. He reluctantly left the woman’s side to throw on a sweater and greet his boss.

Seth squeezed his great girth out from behind the wheel of his pickup truck. He looked as weathered by time and mileage as the Ford and about as rusty. In the cab sat two children, grandchildren from a marriage gone bad. Following as usual, his sons drive up in the old green Impala. He expected the whole family. This was exciting business up here in the mountains.

Seth stretched out a well-callused hand. “You be havin’ friends up at the big house now, Charley?” he asked with a grin that revealed many missing teeth.

C.W. knew it was more than a friendly inquiry. Seth shared the flock and used MacKenzie’s land in exchange for keeping an eye on it and the house.

“No, sir, I am not,” he answered firmly. “I’ve never laid eyes on her before. I was in the shower when I heard the car pull up. When I tried to talk to her she sped down the mountain like a demon. Her plates are from New York.”

Seth’s eyes narrowed. “New York, you say?” He turned to his son. “That right, Frank?”