Page 56 of His Tenth Dance

When he didn’t hear the sound again for several long moments, he turned his head a couple of inches and looked out the narrow two-inch strip of the window he could see.

Nothing seemed amiss.

So he went back to reading about sprinkler systems and pest management.

He’d never gone to college, but he’d grown up in the era of the Internet and currently lived in the Information Age, where anything he didn’t know probably had a dozen videos online to explain it.

His brothers had joked with him more than once about how he should start a video channel with his dry humor and grumpy attitude about everything on the farm. He could come up with the funniest, wittiest captions and get millions of views.

Deacon had less than zero interest in that, and, in general, found social media to be a waste of time. He appreciated the information videos that taught him how to change a filter on a fifty-year-old tractor or de-ice a fuel pump during a sudden freeze, though.

The cry sounded again.

Deacon whipped his head up. This time, he got to his feet and pulled the curtain back a little further. He searched the backyard, still seeing absolutely nothing that would cause such a cry. Perhaps Molly was nightmaring.

Then, a dark-haired woman came around the corner of the house and into one of the most intimately shaded parts of the yard. Deacon himself had probably never set foot there, as this corner of the house nearly butted up with the back corner of thegenerational house, where he lived, and tall aspens and pines filled the space all between and along this side of the houses.

Judy Foster had her eyes on the ground as she walked in a very straight line, and Deacon realized there were railroad ties there, creating raised beds around the basement window wells. She was most likely walking on one of those.

She sniffled.

The previous sounds aligned with the one Deacon now saw her make as he heard it at the same time.

Deacon didn’t know her—not really. She worked at Pony Power as a children’s therapist, and Deacon had nothing to do with that.

He quickly cut his eyes over to Molly, who ruled the roost at the juvenile equine therapy unit. He could barely see her now, as his eyes were not adjusted to the dark.

Then—another startled cry. Much louder than before.

A gasp filled his ears and stole his attention back out the window.

Judy now stood maybe a foot from him, the wall of the house and the window the only thing separating them.

Her eyes widened. Deacon could very clearly see that she had been crying.

He had no idea what to say, and Judy froze like a deer caught in headlights.

Finally, the cowboy side of Deacon caught up to the situation, and he asked, “Do you need help?”

Judy dissolved right in front of him, her face falling and tears flowing down both cheeks. But she shook her head, squeaked out a strangled, “No,” and turned her back on him before she ran away.

Go after her,Deacon thought, but the words hadn’t come from himself.

He pulled the curtain closed again and looked over to Molly. A quick glance at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand told him that Judy had just gotten off work about fifteen minutes ago, and that he could probably get Charlotte or Lisa to come sit with their mother for a few minutes.

Deacon crossed the room quickly and eased out of the bedroom.

He found Lisa in the formal front room, playing the piano, and he said, “I have to run out for a minute. Can you sit with your mom?”

“Sure, Uncle Deac,” she said, abandoning her song mid-note and going down the hall.

Deacon faced the back of the house, once again hesitating. Unsure.

He hated feeling like this, but pure Hammond stubbornness drove him forward and out the back door, in search of the lovely Judy Foster, who’d said she didn’t need help, but had clearly been lying.

nineteen

“Iwill belividif you cancel,” Molly said.

---