Page 50 of The Promise
Loralee glanced down the road. Empty. Ginny probably wouldn't be back for another hour or so. No sense in getting herself worked into a lather waiting. What she needed was company. As she stood up, the old rocker creaked in protest, the sharp sound sending the deer darting back into the shadows of the mountain.
Might not be any people around, but old Jack was here and there were certainly lots of men who figured a horse was better company than a woman. What was good for the gander…
She grabbed a pail from the corner of the porch and headed out for water. No point in arriving empty handed. Ginny's spring was off to the side of her house, hidden by a little stand of pines nestled against a rocky buttress of the mountain. Loralee felt her spirits lift as she stepped through the fragrant pines into the quiet clearing.
Kneeling beside the small pool, she stared at her reflection. Distorted by the water, she almost looked pretty, her hair catching the first rays of sunlight, drab brown streaked with gold. She dipped a hand in the water, erasing her image. No sense in being vain. She filled her hands with water and drank, relishing the feel of the cool liquid sliding down her throat.
Thirst quenched, she dipped the bucket into the water, filling it to the brim. A branch snapped behind her, the crack echoing through the still glade. She froze, the bucket still in the water. Holding her breath, she waited for a second sound, afraid to turn around.
Everything was quiet. Slowly, she turned, dragging the dripping bucket with her. Her gaze darted wildly around the clearing, searching for signs of an intruder.
Nothing.
Gradually, her heart returned to its normal rhythm. She was way too edgy.
With a shaky laugh, she brushed the dirt off her skirts and headed for Jack's lean-to. The horse was standing in the shelter of the rickety building, watching her with baleful eyes, as if to ask where she'd been.
"Morning fella. Feeling a bit lonely?" She dumped the water in the battered tin pan that served as a trough. The horse bent his head to drink greedily. She stroked his side, not certain who was benefiting most from the contact, her or Jack.
"I was kinda lonely, too. Thought maybe we could keep each other company for a bit." Jack raised his head, tossing it as if in agreement. Loralee laughed, the sound doing much to dispel her unease. Spying a dusty brush on what passed for a shelf, she took it and began to stroke the old horse. "I've no idea how to do this proper, Jack, but I don't imagine you care much as long as it feels good."
He nickered softly, his lips splitting into an equine grin.
"I thought so." His coat was dappled with patches of winter hair, making him look even more scraggly than usual. "We've got to stick together you and I. There's no one else to look after us, now."
She started on the convex curve of his sway-back, the brush moving with a slow, steady motion. Jack closed his eyes and blew softly through his nose, the equivalent of horse ecstasy, she supposed. Seemed men were men no matter the species. Just stroke them a little and they go all soft and gooey.
"There now," she crooned, "does that feel better?" She rested her head against his flank, letting the rhythm of the brush lull her, the motion soothing her as much as the horse. The sun was filtering through the loose boards of the lean-to and the warmth seeped into her, adding to the lethargy of the moment.
Suddenly, Jack reared his head, ears laid flat against his skull.
Loralee stepped back, searching the lean-to for a sign of danger, her pleasant mood vanishing as quickly as the mist on the mountains in the hot morning sun. Jack bared his teeth. And Loralee tightened her grip on the brush. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it would have to do.
A jay shot from under the rafters, its shrill call filling the lean-to. Loralee gasped in relief as Jack immediately calmed. "Aren't we a fine pair? Scared to death by a little old jay." She patted the sorrel on the nose. "Well, now that the big, bad bird is gone, what do you say I get you something to eat?"
Jack snorted in agreement, his tail flicking back and forth. He didn't look the slightest bit embarrassed about the bird. Maybe it had been a killer jay. She laughed at her own musings.
"This is what I get for chattin' with a horse." She looped an arm around Jack's neck. "Before long people will start talkin' about crazy Loralee and pulling their children out of my way." Not that they didn't do that already.
"All right then, you stay right here. I'll be right back."
She crossed the dusty swatch of ground that passed as Ginny's yard and pulled open the door to the storage shack. It had been an outhouse once. Ginny'd built a new one out over the creek. This one's window had been boarded up, along with the hole which now served as a kind of shelf. Loralee sucked in a breath and stepped inside. She knew it was probably her imagination, but she would swear the room still stank.
The barrel of oats was in the far corner and she had to step over a couple of boxes to get to it. The top was fastened down with a bent nail. She twisted it and lifted the lid. There was a rusty looking ladle in the bottom and she used that to fill the bucket with grain.
Satisfied that she had enough, she dropped the ladle into the barrel just as the outside door slammed shut, smothering the little room in darkness.
Loralee dropped the bucket and the lid, the resulting clatter adding to her terror. She dropped to the floor, crouching in the corner, hoping that the barrel would hide her. The dark surrounded her, feeding her fear. Panic knifed through her.
She tried to breath slowly, to assure herself that it was just the wind closing the door, but try as she might she couldn't move an inch. Over the stench of the closed room, she thought she caught a whiff of something else, something familiar, but for the life of her, she couldn't identify it.
She waited, her breath stuck in her throat. The smell got stronger, overpowering the scent of the old outhouse. Kerosene. Oh Lord, it was kerosene. With blind panic, she jumped up, intent on reaching the door, but tripped over something, sprawling across the dirty floor. Without even waiting to catch her breath, she scrambled to her knees and began crawling, hands extended, guiding her through the darkened room.
The scent grew stronger and she thought she could smell the first wisp of smoke. She had to find the door. A thin crack of light outlined the opening and she breathed a sigh of relief at the sight. With trembling hands, she felt for the handle, twisting it to open the door.
Nothing happened.
She pushed against it. Again, nothing
