Wild Hearts. Sharon Sala
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the place. Come see, come see.
“Shut up,” Dallas said aloud, wondering what her dad had been thinking this morning when he’d walked this way. What had he been planning to do? Who was lurking in the shadows when he’d walked into the barn?
Flap, flap, flap.
“I said I’m not afraid of ghosts.”
Flap, flap, flap.
“I’m not afraid of you!” she screamed, but her vision was blurring, and the smell of imminent rain was in the air.
She stared at the tape for a few seconds more, then set the basket down and started running. She broke through the tape like the winner at the finish line, then turned on one heel and began gathering it up hand over fist, crying and cursing at the top of her voice until it was in her arms and spilling down around her ankles. She carried it to the burn barrel where they burned the household trash, and threw it inside. Considering her blurred vision and the state of her emotions, it was like looking into a pit of yellow snakes. She wanted to burn it—to watch it melt and take the pain of her loss with it, but she didn’t have anything to start the fire, and it was too windy to be burning anything anyway. She dropped her head and went back for the eggs.
Stepping into the barn moments later gave her a momentary feeling of shelter, and then she hurried into the egg room, where she set the eggs in the cooler. She would clean and sort them tomorrow, when there was more time.
The wind was rattling something on the outside of the barn as she walked back out into the breezeway. She paused, giving all the familiar objects a careful inspection. Nothing seemed to be missing—except her dad.
Don’t look up. Don’t look up.
She heard the voices, but she had to face the fear to get past it, so she tilted her head back, distraught but defiant.
Immediately her eye was drawn to the raw place on the fourth rafter down, where the rope had cleaned the grime of a hundred plus years from the wood, and in that moment the weight of grief was too much. Trey had told her she didn’t need to see the body, but in her mind’s eye she already had.
She threw back her head and screamed until she ran out of breath, and then dropped to her knees and wept until she was choking.
The rain hit hard, splattering the first drops onto the hard dry ground, but the dust soon turned to mud. It wasn’t until the wind began to blow rain in where she was kneeling that she came to herself enough to get up. If nothing else, she had to get back to the house to take Trey’s call or he would come looking for her. She couldn’t be vulnerable around him. It was too dangerous for her sanity.
The moment she walked out of the breezeway, she doubled up her fists and shook them at the sky, screaming her every word.
“I’m not afraid of ghosts! Do you hear me, goddamn it? I am not afraid of ghosts!”
With her head up and her shoulders back, she started walking toward the house with a long, steady stride while the rain poured down around her.
* * *
Betsy Jakes had just finished Trey’s cake when the storm finally hit. She dropped the spatula back into the icing bowl and began walking through the house, closing windows as she went.
“Trina! Shut the windows upstairs!” she yelled.
“I already did,” Trina said, as she came hurrying down the stairs, then followed her mother into the kitchen. “Gosh, that cake looks good. Is there any icing left?”
Betsy started to answer, and then grinned when she saw Trina already licking the spatula and scraping bits from the sides of the bowl.
Betsy covered the cake and then carried it to the extra refrigerator in the attached garage.
Lightning flashed, making the house lights flicker just as she came back inside. Trina had abandoned the spatula for her finger and was licking off icing as Betsy walked in. She smiled and shook her head. Some things never changed.
“Hey, honey, what do you want for supper...besides icing?” Betsy asked.
Trina shrugged. “Scrambled eggs and toast?”
Suddenly her smile felt weird, as if she had just laughed at a funeral, but she managed to hide the jolt. Eggs. For a few minutes she’d almost forgotten. “And maybe some sausage links?” she added.
“Sure, sounds good,” Trina said, and then carried the icing bowl to the sink, rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ll clean up the cake mess if you do supper, okay?”
“Deal,” Betsy said, and both women were soon involved in preparations for their evening meal.
* * *
Trey picked up an order of sliced brisket and French fries from Jonny’s Ribs to take back to his place. The smell of the food was so good he grabbed a couple of fries from the sack and ate them as he drove.
The rain hit just as he entered his apartment. If he was really lucky, he wouldn’t be called out tonight, but just in case, he’d learned not to waste time when it came to hot food. He washed up, then transferred the food to a plate and began to eat. A cold beer would have been good, but he was on call, so no dice.
He thought about Dallas, wondering how she was doing. One thing about her hadn’t changed. She was still as headstrong as ever. It probably served her well as an investigative reporter. Him, not so much.
He turned on the television as he ate, waiting for the weather report to see if this storm front was going to move through or hang around. Still fidgeting, he glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven. He would give Dallas two more hours and then he was calling.
* * *
Freshly showered and in clean, dry clothes, Dallas went to the kitchen for the coffee she’d made. The thought of food made her sick, but she felt light-headed, almost weak. She hadn’t had anything but junk or fast food since noon the day before and knew she couldn’t do what she needed to do if she were sick. Finally she settled for an omelet, an old standby for supper, and had it ready in minutes. She added buttered toast to the plate and carried it and her coffee into the living room to eat.
It was almost dark, so she went around the room drawing shades and pulling curtains until she felt safe, then sat down, turned on the television and ate.
Even though it was virtually tasteless, she felt better when the food was in her stomach. Settling in to finish her coffee, she pulled her feet up beneath her, and as she did, her gaze went straight to the recliner where her dad would have been sitting. A wave of loss washed through her so fast it left her shaking. She blinked away tears and turned up the volume. Trey would be calling, and she didn’t want him to hear the tears in her voice.
* * *
Trina’s boyfriend, Lee, had come by to take her to a movie, leaving Betsy with the house to herself. The thought of a long soak in the tub seemed like a good idea, and she headed for her room, ready to put this day to bed.
The tub was nearly full as she poured bath salts into the water and turned off the faucet. She stepped out of her robe and into the tub, easing down into the steamy heat. Water lapped against her breasts and up the back of her neck as she tucked the bath pillow beneath her neck and closed her eyes.
The buoyancy and heat were so soothing that she soon lost track of time. The sound of rainfall on the roof made her feel sleepy. The heat always soothed the ache in her lower back, a remnant from the wreck that had nearly killed her in her teens. The moment she thought of the wreck, she saw Dick Phillips hanging from the rafter. Before she could look away, his face morphed into someone else, someone covered in blood. She sat up with a gasp, splashing water onto the bathroom floor.
“What the hell?” she muttered, chalking it up to the horrendous day.
She wondered if Dallas was back in town yet. She should call, but since she’d also discovered the body, it made things awkward.