Turner took a step forward. Now the barrel of the gun was firmly against his father’s belly.
“Where’s the baby?” he asked, his gaze slowly shifting from Hank, to Charles, to John. “What did you do with my child? Did you feed it to the dogs, too?”
“Jesus Christ,” John whispered, and took a step forward. “We didn’t know, Turner, we didn’t know.”
Turner shifted the barrel of the gun from Jubal to John. His voice was flat, completely devoid of emotion.
“Don’t touch me,” he warned them. “You’re all evil to the core. Now where’s my child?”
Hank was getting scared. They’d crossed a line that not even he could excuse.
“We didn’t know,” he said. “But you can’t blame us…after all, she was a Joslin.”
Turner’s finger twitched as the gun swung sideways. The shock on Hank’s face spread as swiftly as the blood in the middle of his chest. Seconds later, he dropped to the ground without uttering a sound.
Jubal lunged toward Turner. “God almighty!” he roared. “You shot your brother, your own flesh and blood, over a piece of filth.”
Turner fired again, this time at his father. Jubal dropped to the ground, screaming in pain, his kneecap gone.
Within seconds, Charles was taking aim. John held up his hand, begging for the killing to stop, and stepped in front of the bullet meant for Turner.
Turner watched the look of disbelief on John’s face as he fell forward. Instinctively, he caught him, lowering him to the ground as Jubal fired off a round. But Jubal’s bullet hit Charles beneath his right eye. Now he, too, was gone.
Turner rocked back on his heels and stood. His clothes were covered in blood. Fancy’s blood. John’s blood. The smell of death was everywhere. He turned, looking upon the area without registering the sight. He was out of his mind with grief and at the point of turning his gun on himself when it clicked on an empty chamber. He dropped the rifle with a painful grunt.
The pain—the pain.
He wanted it to go away.
Without looking at Fancy, he reached for John’s gun with every intention of using it on himself, when a different sound penetrated the horror in his mind. It was the weak but unmistakable cry of a newborn baby. He spun around, frantically searching the tree line as if he expected the baby to miraculously appear.
“Baby…is that you?”
The sound persisted, faint but clear. His body and his voice were beginning to shake as he took a step forward.
“Don’t cry, baby…. Daddy will find you.”
He dropped the gun and started walking like a man in a trance. He didn’t feel the shot that hit him in the back, but the one that tore through his leg sent him tumbling to the ground. He rolled as he fell, then looked back. Jubal was up on one elbow, with a rifle in his hand.
Turner looked past his father to the woman on the ground. He kept waiting for the pain, but everything felt numb. He looked at Fancy again. It would be so easy to let go.
“Finish the job, old man,” he screamed, shaking his fist in the air.
Hate spilled across Jubal Blair’s face as he raised the rifle, taking shaky aim.
Turner braced himself for the shot that never came.
Instead, the features on Jubal Blair’s face began to melt. The gun fell from his fingers as they curled into a fist. Instead of curses, nothing came from Jubal’s lips except a series of grunts as he fell to the ground with a thump.
Turner dropped backward with a groan. Now pain was spilling through his body with every breath. He turned his head. In the distance, he could see the outline of Fancy’s body.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and closed his eyes, willing himself to die.
Then it came again, the faint but unmistakable cry of a tiny baby, mewling in the night, and he rolled onto his side. Moments later, he began crawling toward the trees—and the sound.
Some time later, a silent figure of a woman slipped out of the woods and knelt beneath the shadow of Pulpit Rock. Her shoulders were shaking, her hands fluttering helplessly. Finally she stood and, with a burst of great strength, lifted Fancy Joslin’s lifeless body into her arms.
Sometime during the night it started to rain. Softly at first, then harder and harder, until the raindrops sounded like bullets against the leaves, splattering upon the bodies of men and dogs alike and washing them clean of blood. Thunder ripped through the heavens, shaking Jubal Blair from the darkness. The raindrops felt like ice against his cheeks, and there were rivulets of water running beneath his body. He tried to scream for help, but nothing came out of his throat. He was alive, but trapped within a body that had already died.
Meanwhile, higher up on the mountain, Annie Fane was frantically packing. She’d buried the young mother beneath a tree in her backyard, then burned her own bloody clothes. It was only a matter of time before the bodies would be found, and she was the only one within hearing distance of the site. Already distrusted by the people of Camarune, she knew someone would be blamed for the deaths. As superstitious as they were, it stood to reason it would be her. So using the light of the moon as a guide, she began to cover her tracks. She planted the bare earth above Fancy’s grave with some of the herbs growing on her porch, then ringed it with a circle of stones. By the time she was through, it was impossible to tell it from her other flower beds.
The baby was crying again, and she hurried into the house, quickly washing her hands, then cuddling it to her chest. Fashioning a diaper from one of her dish towels, she gave the baby a change. The momentary comfort was enough so that after a few minutes of rocking, the baby drifted back to sleep.
Annie gazed longingly at the little cabin that had been her home and salvation, then looked at the baby asleep on her bed. It had been a long time since she’d had a responsibility to anyone other than herself. But she’d made a promise—and Annie Fane was a woman of her word. She ran to a closet and pulled out an old suitcase. It was time to move on.
It was morning before the county sheriff, acting on an anonymous tip, found the bodies beneath Pulpit Rock. Shock reverberated within the community of Camarune as the pastor of the local church raced to Jubal’s home to give young Turner the bad news. But there was no sign of Turner Blair. Only the note that he’d stuck between the salt and pepper shakers telling his father he would be in touch. Another great shock moved through the town when it was discovered that the men had seemingly died at their own hands. Bullets found in the dogs and the bodies matched the guns that they carried. There was an extra gun, but it bore the name of Henry Blair, Jubal’s father, so they assumed that one of the men had been carrying two. It made no sense to the people, and even less to the sheriff, but Jubal wasn’t in any shape to explain. It was also common knowledge that when the sheriff had gone up the mountain to question the witch, he’d found nothing but an abandoned cabin.
Days later, as his sons were laid to rest, Jubal Blair lay motionless in a hospital bed in a nearby town, suffering from the gunshot wound to his leg, as well as the stroke that had struck him dumb. The town grieved, and then grief moved on, leaving only the brothers’ families to suffer the loss. Soon they, too, moved on, unwilling to stay in a place with such memories.
There were those who claimed that the witch had put a curse on the Blairs and that they’d killed each other while under her spell. Then days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, then to years. Only now and then would someone mention the mystery at Pulpit Rock, and when they did, they would follow it with a prayer.
It was part of their past, and that was exactly where they wanted it to stay. And stay it did—until Annie Fane returned.
3
Camarune, Kentucky, present day
N ellie Cauthorn, the preacher’s wife at the Church of the Firstborn, had been saying all day that things didn’t feel right. She’d told Preacher so during breakfast. Then she went to the store to tell her best friend, Lovie Cleese, who owned Camarune’s only grocery. Lovie had heard Nellie’s predictions before and never put much stock in them. But in the midst of cleaning out the produce section, she heard a commotion out in the street, then heard Nellie screeching.
Lovie darted toward the front of the store to see what was wrong. When she got to the window, her heart skipped a beat. A long black hearse from the Lexington Funeral Home had just run over a dog. The dog was past help, and from the looks of the casket just visible inside the hearse, so was the person residing inside.
To Lovie’s dismay, at the sight of the dead dog, Nellie fell to the floor in a faint. By the time Lovie had revived her friend, the dog’s carcass had been removed from the street and the driver of the hearse was reimbursing the owner for the loss of his pet.
Nellie was mumbling something about premonitions and wiping her face with the cloth Lovie pressed in her hand when another vehicle pulled up behind the hearse. The woman getting out of the dusty black Jeep was a stranger. Lovie judged her to be in her mid-twenties, and from the cut of her clothes, probably a city dweller, a bit above average height, and erring on the side of slender. But it was the blue-black hair brushing the tops of her shoulders that made Lovie take a step forward for a closer look. She squinted through the streaks in the windows, absently thinking they needed a wash, and kept staring.
Who was she? She looked so familiar. But the thought wouldn’t connect.
If only she’d turn her head a little bit to the…
The woman turned, and for the first time, Lovie got a good look at her face.
“Have mercy,” Lovie muttered. “Who is she?”
“What? What is it now?” Nellie cried, gawking around Lovie’s shoulder toward the street.
“That woman,” Lovie said.
“What about her?”
Lovie inhaled sharply. “She looks familiar.”
“Looks like who?” Nellie urged, her curiosity piqued.
“I don’t know…probably no one,” Lovie muttered. “I guess I was mistaken.”
“She’s coming inside!” Nellie said.
Lovie turned.
The bell over the door jangled. The woman was standing in the doorway with a hesitant look upon her face. Her jeans were clean but travel-worn, as were her shirt and jacket.
“Can I help you?” Lovie snapped.
Nellie stared at Lovie as if she’d just lost her mind. Never in her life had she heard Lovie use that tone of voice with a customer.
The young woman tugged at the lapels of her jacket, then took a couple of steps farther, letting the door close behind her.
“I need to hire someone with a truck.”
When Lovie remained silent, Nellie felt it her duty as the pastor’s wife to answer the stranger’s request.
“Maynard Phillips down at the service station has a—”
“Maynard’s probably busy,” Lovie snapped, interrupting Nellie before she could finish.
The young woman’s gaze centered on Lovie’s face, silently acknowledging her rudeness, but she stood her ground.
“Maybe there’s someone else?” she asked.
Lovie shuddered. The way the stranger pursed her lips before speaking seemed familiar, although she knew good and well she’d never seen the woman before.
“Doubt it,” Lovie said. “People are pretty busy around here.”
The woman’s chin jutted mutinously, and for the first time since she’d entered the store, her voice took on an edge.
“Does that come naturally, or do you have to work at it?” she asked.
Lovie frowned. “Work at what?”
“Being rude.”
Nellie gasped. She hated confrontation. Her hands fluttered around her chest like butterflies caught in a cage as she gave Lovie a nervous glance before speaking.
“I’m sure Lovie didn’t mean to be—”
“Is there anything else you’d be needing?” Lovie snapped.
This time, even Nellie was shocked at Lovie’s rudeness. “Lovie! What on earth is wrong with you?”
Lovie didn’t answer. But it wasn’t because she wouldn’t. Truth be told, she didn’t know what was wrong. But every time she looked at that woman’s face, she got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. And Lovie Cleese hadn’t lived to be seventy-five without paying attention to her instincts.
“Never mind,” the woman said. “I’ll be asking elsewhere. Surely there’s someone in this town who’s interested in making some extra money.”
Nellie took a step forward. A pastor’s pay was far from generous. Maybe Preacher could borrow a truck.
“What was it you were needing hauled?” she asked, ignoring Lovie’s indrawn hiss of disapproval.
The young woman pointed over her shoulder. “My grannie’s casket.”
Nellie’s eyes widened in sympathy. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
All the stiffness of the young woman’s demeanor deflated as her voice softened.
“Thank you,” she said.
Nellie felt better. Condolences were part of her job as a pastor’s wife. She was on firm ground again, but curious. “The hearse is already here. Why can’t the driver take the casket to the cemetery for burial? It’s just at the edge of town.”
The woman’s eyes disappeared behind a sudden pool of tears. Nellie sighed. Had it not been for Lovie, she would have put her arms around the girl and held her close.
“Because Grannie wanted to be buried behind her old home,” the woman said. “I’ve already seen to the grave being dug, but I’ve been told that a hearse won’t be able to traverse the road up the mountain.”
“That’s certainly true,” Nellie said, and then added, “exactly where are you headed?”
The woman began digging through her jacket pockets. “Somewhere up the mountain above a place called Pulpit Rock. I’m sure I have the directions right here.” But when she couldn’t find them, she shrugged. “They’re probably in my car.”
To Nellie’s disbelief, Lovie Cleese actually cursed. Fearing another confrontation, Nellie felt obligated to point out what she felt sure was a misdirection.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Nellie said. “I fear you’ve been misled. There’s nothing up there but the old witch’s cabin.”
The woman jerked as if she’d been slapped. “I didn’t believe her,” she muttered, more to herself than to the two women, then she turned sharply and started toward the door, and as she did, something in the way she moved sent another shudder up Lovie Cleese’s spine. In spite of her fear, curiosity won.
“Wait!”
The woman paused, then turned.
“What’s your name, girl?” Lovie asked.
The woman’s chin tilted, and in that moment, both Nellie and Lovie felt the fire of her glare.
“Catherine Fane.”
Lovie paled. “Even in death,” she muttered cryptically, then sank into a nearby chair.
Nellie gasped. “The witch’s kin!”
Catherine was so angry she was shaking. “You people are a bunch of superstitious fools. If you’d known Annie Fane, you wouldn’t be accusing her of such a thing.” Then she pointed straight at Lovie’s face. “And with or without your help, Annie Fane’s last wishes are going to be fulfilled.”
The door slammed behind her, leaving the two women alone.
“We’re doomed,” Nellie muttered. “The witch has come back to Camarune.”
“Just shut up,” Lovie said. “The woman’s dead.”
“And so is Henry’s dog,” Nellie said. “God only knows who’ll be next. I told you something wasn’t right today. I told you, didn’t I?” she said.
Lovie had more things on her mind than Nellie’s predilection for prophecies. But Nellie wasn’t about to be silenced. Not when she’d just been proven right.
“Yessiree, I knew something bad was going to happen today.”
As if the last few minutes had not been enough to prove her right, a loud crack of thunder rattled the grocery store windows, and then it started to rain.
After a few brief words to the driver of the hearse, Catherine slid behind the wheel of her car and then sat, trying to regain her composure. The last few days had been nothing short of hell. Facing her grandmother’s death had been inevitable. The cancer had been eating at her body for over a year. But the deathbed confession of the woman she loved had destroyed what was left of her world.
She closed her eyes, picturing her grandmother’s face and then remembering the words that had shattered her soul.
She was no relation to Annie Fane. After that, she’d absorbed only bits and pieces of what Annie had been trying to say.
Feuding families.
Forbidden love.
Lies.
Murder.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. Alone. She was so alone. Her past was a lie. No, she thought, not everything she’d been told was a lie. Her parents were dead, after all, just not in the romantic fashion she’d been led to believe. So they hadn’t died in a train crash in each other’s arms. So in reality her grandfather had caused her mother’s death, as well as his own son’s. The urge to scream was overwhelming. Dear God, if all that was true, then what did that make her? What sort of monster’s blood ran through her veins?
A loud crack of thunder made her jump. Seconds later, the heavens opened, diluting her view of the store and the two women staring at her from behind the dusty windows. Well, she thought, wryly, at least one side of the glass was about to come clean.
She started the car, then turned on the windshield wipers before pulling away from the curb. The intensity of her anger was making her sick to her stomach. She needed to cry, but she was afraid if she started, all she would do was throw up. And, she reminded herself, she wasn’t taking the word of anybody who dared to call her grannie a witch. Maybe the man named Maynard would help her, after all.
She found the place easily and parked, noting several large pickup trucks parked about the station. Surely one of these men would be willing to earn a little extra money. Without giving herself time to think, she got out on the run, dashing through the rain to the door.
Luke DePriest was downing the last of his Coke when the door to Maynard’s Gas and Guzzle suddenly flew open and a young woman rushed in. He had a brief glimpse of her face—enough to know she was a stranger—and then she was past him, heading toward the counter and the other three men lounging there. He set the empty Coke can on the windowsill and waited, curious as to her intent.
“I need to hire someone with a truck to carry something up the mountain for me,” she said.
Luke watched all three men come to attention. Extra money was hard to come by in these parts. He took a step closer, curiosity overcoming manners.
Maynard Phillips figured since this was his store, it was his right to get first dibs. He braced himself against the counter and offered her a grin.
“Well now, Missy, I’ve got the newest and best truck in these parts. I reckon I can help you out. Exactly what is it you’re needing hauled?”
The woman’s answer startled everyone, including Luke.
“A casket,” she said. “I’m taking my grandmother’s body up the mountain to her home place to be buried, and the hearse can’t make the trip.”
The smile on Maynard’s face slipped a bit, but Luke had to give him credit for maintaining it.
“I can’t say as how I’ve ever hauled me a dead body before,” Maynard said, then peered out the window, his eyes widening as he saw the long black hearse parked down the street. “However, I don’t suppose it’d do no harm.”
Luke saw her shoulders sag with relief.
“That’s wonderful,” she said softly. “I’ll go tell the driver.”
As she started to turn, Luke caught a glimpse of her profile. Raindrops clung to the tips of her eyelashes, shimmering like tears, and her lower lip was on the verge of quivering, too. She looked as if she was running on guts alone, and he wondered how far she’d traveled to get to Camarune.
“Say, Missy,” Maynard called. “I reckon I should ask exactly how far up the mountain you’re needing to go? The roads get slick pretty fast in a rain.”
She paused, and Luke saw her worry her lower lip before answering.
“About a quarter of a mile above a place called Pulpit Rock.”
Maynard frowned. “I think you’ve got your directions confused. There ain’t nothing up there.”
Then one of the other men interrupted. “Just the old witch’s cabin.”
The woman’s posture stiffened, and Luke could tell by the tone of her voice she’d been offended by what they’d said.
“I’m offering one hundred dollars to drive less than four miles. Are you going to help me?”
“Are you saying that’s where you’re going?” Maynard asked.
“Yes.”
Maynard’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall your mention of the deceased’s name.”
This time there was no mistaking the tension in the woman’s shoulders.
“My grandmother, Annie Fane.”
Luke winced. He hadn’t grown up here, but he knew the name, and he knew damned good and well that none of these men would go up that mountain with Annie Fane’s body in the back of their truck.
Maynard took off his cap and swiped a hand through his hair, then jammed it back on his head.
“I’m sorry, Missy, but I can’t help you after all.”
When the young woman’s chin began to quiver, Luke sighed. Damn. He never could stand to see a woman cry.
“I have to get my grandmother’s casket up the mountain to be buried. Are you saying you don’t want the job?”
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon I am,” Maynard said.
Before she could ask any of the other men present, they bolted out the door to their trucks and drove away.
Luke was torn between sympathy for the woman and understanding for the men. Superstition was as much a part of these people as the air they breathed. Although he didn’t believe in such gossip, he’d heard plenty of stories about the witch, and the curse she’d put on Jubal Blair and his sons. He watched the woman, wondering what she would do next.
“Is there anyone in this place you could recommend to me?” she asked.
At that point Luke knew she wasn’t going to quit. A part of him admired her persistence, while the rest of him worried what kind of hornet’s nest she was bound to stir up. With the rash of thievery that had been going on in the mountains above Camarune, he already had more trouble than he cared to cope with, but he had always been a sucker for a woman in need.
“Hey, Maynard, can I borrow your truck for about an hour?”
Maynard looked startled, but not as much as the woman, who pivoted suddenly, unaware there had been another man at the back of the room.
“Well, sure, I reckon so,” Maynard said, and started digging out his keys. “But Pete will be through changing the oil in your Blazer pretty soon.”
“Yeah, I know,” Luke said softly, staring intently at the fear on the young woman’s face. “But the patrol car isn’t long enough to hold a casket.”
Maynard cursed beneath his breath as he handed Luke the keys.
“You wash it out before you bring it back,” he muttered. “I don’t want no death marks on it.”
Luke pointed out the window. “You haven’t washed it since the day you bought it. Thanks to the rain, I can guarantee it’ll come back cleaner than when we started.” Then he tipped his Stetson to the woman. “Ma’am, my name is Luke DePriest, sheriff of Taney County. I’ll be glad to help you.”
He felt her relief as her expression softened. “I’ll pay you after we’re there.”
“No charge, ma’am. Consider it part of my job.”
“My name is Catherine Fane,” she said quietly, then took a shuddering breath. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No need, and I’m sorry for your loss.” Then he put his hand under her elbow and guided her out the door. Within minutes, the transfer had been made from hearse to truck.
“I’ll follow you,” Catherine said, and started to get in her car.
“I’m not sure you’ll be able to drive all the way up,” Luke warned.
“I’ll take it as far as it will go,” she said. “I’ll need a way to get off the mountain when I’m done.”
