Page 124 of Price of Angels

“You want kids?”

Dread passed through her at the idea. Girls who’d been tied to bed and raped by their blood relations had no business passing on that blood – or rearing children, for that matter. She never allowed herself the fantasy of motherhood; it was too dangerous.

“I haven’t thought about it much,” she said, and that wasn’t a lie.

“Well, you know, Michael may be quiet, and not always in the best of moods, but he’d make a good daddy to his little ones.”

The image of her stern-faced man changing a diaper popped into her head, smoothing away the anguish of her sudden glimpse of motherhood. “You think?”

“Oh, I know. Ain’t nobody more dedicated and responsible than Michael. You can take that to the bank.”

The truck slowed again, and they turned right once more, onto a driveway that was two uneven gravel tracks in the brown winter grass. Trees grew up tall on either side, branches lacing together overhead, creating a tunnel straight out of a children’s fairy book. All this she saw with the headlights, along with the tubular steel gate that stood open, pushed back against one of its heavy railroad tie posts. A wooden sign to the left of the drive proclaimed this place asChaceaway Farm, Breeders of Quality Great Dane and Bluetick Hound Dogs.

“Home sweet home,” Wynn said, and the truck rumbled down the drive, swaying when it hit ruts, lurching as they went around one bend and then another.

Finally the trees fell away and they emerged in a clearing. She could see the two-story log home Michael had described to her while they waited for Wynn, buttery light spilling from its windows out onto the lawn, highlighting segments of the wraparound porch. A cozy beacon in the dark, it invited the progress of the truck, right up to the doors of the detached garage. Behind it, she glimpsed the corner of a large, darkened building she guessed must be the barn.

There was an excited flutter in her stomach. She’d grown up on a property that had once been a farm – if one could call it “growing up.” But she’d never set foot on a real working farm, and she was giddy as a little girl, suddenly, at the idea of seeing this one in the daylight tomorrow.

She opened the truck door the second they were parked and the smells of sawdust and sweet hay rushed into her lungs, mixed with a faint stink of dog leavings.

“Do you have any other animals besides the dogs?” she asked, curious about the distinctive hay smell.

“Oh yeah, sure. I got some goats. Got a milk cow. Got a couple donkeys to keep her company.”

As if on cue, a high, nasal bray came from the barn, muffled by the walls, but unmistakable.

She laughed.

“You get quiet, Cletus,” Wynn called. “It ain’t time for breakfast yet.” To her, he said, “I feed about six most mornings.”

“That’s early.”

“Animals like to get up early.” He pulled her bag from the narrow backseat. “Come on, then, and we’ll get you settled.”

As they walked across the gravel parking pad toward the house, she heard the dogs get cranked up, a chorus of barks and howls that came from somewhere near the barn. She tensed, not sure if she should expect a pack of hounds to barrel around the corner and crash into them.

“They’re in the kennels,” Wynn explained. “Only Cass and Delilah are in the house.”

“It sounds like you have a lot of them,” she said, releasing a deep, relieved breath.

“Not as many as I used to.”

Their footsteps echoed on the wooden porch steps and by the time they reached the front door, Holly could hear a soft whining on the other side of it. She stood well behind Wynn as he unlocked and opened the door; in the threshold, framed by the warm light inside the house, stood a massive black and white Great Dane.

To be fair, Holly thought, all Great Danes were massive, but this one seemed not only long-legged, but solid and broad too. As it danced backward, head flung back, panting in exuberant greeting to its master, she saw the pendulous weights of distended teats along the dog’s belly. A female, either nursing or about to have her pups.

“Hey there, beautiful.” Wynn stroked the Dane’s large head a moment, then lifted his index finger. Immediately, the dog sat in response to the silent command. Over his shoulder, he said, “Holly, come in and meet Delilah. And don’t be nervous,” he said, as if reading her thoughts, “she’s gentle as an old housecat.”

Well, she’d shaken hands with creatures more terrifying than this, hadn’t she? She stepped into the doorway and let the dog sniff the back of her hand. Delilah snuffled a moment, wet nose kissing along Holly’s knuckles. Then she licked her fingers and opened her jaws in a happy panting dog-smile.

“Alright, out of the way, Delilah,” Wynn said, shooing the Dane back, and ushering Holly fully inside so he could shut the door.

They stood in an open room full of comfortable-looking leather furniture, heavy tables topped with lamps, and a wide stone fireplace. Split firewood was heaped in a rack beside the hearth. A desk beneath the front window housed a flat-screen computer and a disarray of paperwork, folders, coffee mugs and pens. It was warm, and it smelled like pine solvent. It gave off an impression of being clean, though cluttered: dog leashes on the tables, abandoned shoes, a hat set on top of one lampshade, its shadow projected onto the ceiling.

Then she saw the other dog, the one Wynn had called Cass. This one was jet black, and as it unfolded itself from a dog bed in the corner, she saw that this one was taller, leaner, more muscular than Delilah. A more powerful beast she couldn’t imagine.

It approached with obvious reserve, not nervous, but cautious of the stranger.

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