Page 65 of A River of Crows

As if to refute the thought, the crow opened its beak again and repeated the haunting mantra. “Ridge. Ridge. Ridge.”

Tears as warm as the blood dripping down her leg fell from Sloan’s eyes. “What’s going on?” she asked as if the crow might explain. “What the hell is going on?”

Suddenly, there was movement from behind her, leaves and sticks crunching underneath someone’s weight. The hair on her arms rose as she turned toward the woods.

She noticed the shoes first. Nikes as black and slick as the crow. She looked up slowly until she met the stranger’s eyes. But it wasn’t a stranger. Twenty years had passed since she’d looked into those gentle blue eyes, but she recognized them. She noticed the tiny scar above his left eyebrow. Her chest tingled. Her breath caught. She finally exhaled in a series of short choppy breaths.

“Ridge,” she managed.

With an uneasy smile, he took another step forward. “Hey, sis.”

Chapter 19

Mallowater, TX, 2008

Sloan took a step back and closed her eyes. This wasn’t happening. This man was not Ridge. She opened her eyes, expecting him to vanish like the ghost that he was, but Ridge was still standing there, flesh, bone, and blood. Her own blood went cold. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

He held up a hand. “You know who I am, Lo. I understand this is confusing.”

Sloan was dizzy. She took another step back and lowered herself onto a moss-covered log. “I’m going crazy.”

Ridge took a few tentative steps forward. “You aren’t.”

The campground spun; the caged crow cawed. Sloan put her head between her knees and took deep breaths. When she looked up, Ridge had knelt on the dirt next to her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Am I okay? I’m talking to my brother who died when I was twelve years old.”

“I didn’t die, Sloan.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Obviously.” She reached to wrap her arms around him. He squeezed tight, and Sloan felt his tears on her shoulder.

She pulled back and looked at him. His once blonde hair was now chestnut brown. He had perfectly straight teeth, muscular arms, and a strong jawline covered in stubble.

“You’re so grown up. So handsome.” She wiped mascara from under her eyes. “Where have you been, Ridge? Where the hell have you been?”

Ridge’s chin dipped to his chest. “I’m not ready to talk about that.”

“No.” Sloan sprung to her feet. “You don’t get to show up after twenty years and not want to talk about it.”

Ridge rose to meet her. “I came back because I wanted Mom to know I was alright. But when I saw you up here, I couldn’t stay in those bushes. I had to see you.”

Hundreds of thoughts bounced in Sloan’s brain like tiny rubber balls. She tapped the sides of her head as if she could force them still. Mom. She’d claimed to talk to Ridge. “Have you been talking to Mom?”

“No. Well, not exactly.”

He stepped behind the tent and pulled out the cage. “Ridge,” the crow said. “Ridge. Ridge.”

“You trained a crow?”

Ridge opened the cage. “Step up,” he said, and the crow flew up and landed on Ridge’s arm. “This is Crawford.”

“He’s your pet?” Sloan stared at the crow’s bony, sharp claws twisted around Ridge’s arm.

“Just a bird I studied back at home. Now that Mom knows I’m okay, I’m training him to fly free.” Ridge looked around the creek. “This will be a good home for him. A good place to find a mate.”

“How does a crow saying your name tell Mom you’re okay?”

“I get this makes no sense to you, but I knew it would to Mom,” he said. “Crows are kind of a language we share.”

---