He looked at her as a doctor would look at a patient—a look that Molly was beginning to despise.
“Feel her? Come on, Molly. Maybe you did have visions—or do have visions—but we have to make sense of them somehow.” He placated her, “You always do, you know. You figure everything out sooner or later.”
“But later might be too late! There’s a little girl’s life at stake!” Molly’s voice rose as she got up from the chair. “If she’s still alive.”
She gulped her water. Her determination grew. “She is still alive. I can feel it. I just have to find her.” She looked out the window at the woods beyond the backyard and said quietly, “I have to find out about that spot in the woods where the ground was hot.”
“What? What spot in the woods? What are you talking about?” Cole asked determinedly. “I’m worried about you, Molly, but if you’re not willing to get help, then you need to know, I’m not uprooting again.”
His cold stare bore into Molly. Too tired to draft another explanation that she knew would be refuted, she conceded. “I’m not asking you to uproot again. I think I’m just overtired.” Molly headed toward the stairs. “I just need to rest.” Cole didn’t respond. Molly watched him shake his head and walk out the front door. As she ascended the stairs, thoughts of the Perkinsons’ cellar raced through her mind. The light was on. The light was off. She turned back around and headed toward her den. Molly knew that once her mind got started, it was relentless; she’d never be able to rest. She sat down at her desk and drafted an email to Newton Carr.
Newton, I would like to hear more about the Perkinson House. Do you think you could take me there sometime? I’d love to see the property. She leaned back in her chair, and a moment later typed, Does it still have electricity? Thanks, Molly.
Hannah’s morning schedule had been interrupted by an overwhelming sense of anxiety that she could not escape. She felt like a caged tiger, needing to break free. The familiar sound of the horses’ hooves sporadically clomping on the packed-earth floor of their stalls only momentarily soothed Hannah’s anxiety. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes, relishing the pungent scent of manure and hay—a scent most people would find sharp or unpleasant. Hannah was normally calmed by the smell of her horses. Today, however, she was unable to put her finger on the pulse of her discomfort; it was unsettling, like a bad dream she could not shake. She unlatched Hunter’s stall and drew his lean, muscular body into the center of the barn. She stroked his side, and he nodded his head as if telling her that he was ready. Hannah separated the mouthpiece from the worn leather of the headstall and moved it toward his mouth. He instinctively grasped the bit as he had every morning for the past several years—an expert. Hannah settled the face strap. She didn’t halter Hunter when bridling him, there was no need. He seemed to find equal pleasure in their rides and never fought the tacking process. Together they walked out of the barn and to the block that Hannah had had specifically built in order to mount her horses. She climbed atop Hunter, bareback. Her body molded to the warmth of him. She leaned forward and stroked his mane. He shook his head from side to side. Look, leg, rein, Hannah thought habitually. She turned her head in the direction of the woods, used her leg to reinforce her intended direction, and Hunter moved with her before she had time to direct him.
“Good boy,” Hannah said. They trotted toward the woods behind Hannah’s farm.
Thirty minutes later, Hannah and Hunter emerged from the trees onto Schaeffer Road, a one-lane, rural road used as a shortcut from the older section of Boyds to the newer side of town. Hannah had used Schaeffer Road often when the trails were too muddy to ride as it offered a nice loop that led back toward her farm. It was a dangerous path for a horse, she knew, between the kids who raced down the road on their way to the airpark and the old-timers who drove ten miles per hour, but there were times that she just had to ride, no matter what the risk. On this day, however, she had needed to go through the trail—to see her. She felt the pull of the child, urging her near. Her thoughts drifted to Newton, and the first time they’d met, more than twenty years earlier.
She had been hanging up a flyer on the cork board at the post office, looking for farm hands, and Newton had been straightening papers on the table in front of the board. His eyes genially washed over Hannah, and he had quickly looked toward the ground as she tried to make eye contact.
“Well, hello there,” she’d said, cheerfully. “You must be the wonderful person who keeps our community boards up to date.”
“Yes, yes, I am,” he had said, hurriedly. “You must be Ms. State? Bought the old Williams farm?” His eyes continued to dart away from Hannah’s.
“Slate, with an L—Hannah.” She had reached out to shake his hand.
“Well, nice to meet you, Hannah.” He had taken her hand in his which was small for a man’s hand. His handshake was gentle, not manly, but warm. Although he was shy, he exuded a friendliness that not many people could claim. “Newton, Newton Carr,” he had said, finally looking up at her.
They’d chatted for a while and Hannah found herself intrigued by the little interesting man, who reminded her, somehow, of Piglet, with his modest and embarrassed mannerisms and sweet demeanor.
She’d commented on how he must have known everyone in Boyds, and he said, “I could tell you tales that wrap around this town like a ribbon. Hannah, would you have a minute to come meet Betty, my wife?”
Pleasantly surprised, she’d accepted, and spent the rest of the afternoon, and subsequently, many long days and nights with Newton and Betty, getting to know them, listening to stories about the town, the people, and genuinely becoming close friends. Newton and Betty had quickly become like family to Hannah, sharing holidays and urgencies. It had been Newton who’d dropped everything when Hannah had needed him, multiple times, and Betty who would bring soup when she was ill, tending to her animals over the years.
During the snowstorm in the mid-nineties, it was Newton who had begged Harley to plow her driveway first, Just in case. Newton had been there when Charlie left her and she’d needed a shoulder to cry on, a person to sit with, and to help her glue the pieces of her life back together. It was Newton who had held her secret and cherished it as much as she had, for so many years. Newton helped her hide from the rest of the world. Newton was her savior in more ways than one.
A thud behind her startled her out of her daydream, inciting a sense of fear. Something inside Hannah suddenly changed. Memories of the past heightened her anxiety and made her sentimental at the same time. She turned away from the annoying sound of the model airplanes hovering above, away from the trail she had been following, and down the paved road that led in the direction of her farm. The one-lane road weaved through the thick shade of the trees. Streams of sunlight stretched to the ground, offering brief, delicious patches of warmth. As they neared their turn, raindrops began to fall from the sky. Hannah held her face up toward the clouds, remembering a time long ago when she and Charlie had first begun to ride together—the dreams that they had woven, the plans they had made as they had ridden on a day that was so similar with a light sprinkling of rain. Dreams, Hannah remembered, of children, laughing and running through the fields, ponies bounding in the pastures, and dogs keeping a watchful eye over their blessings. Hannah let out a brief, harsh laugh. “Yeah, right. Dreams!” she lifted the reins and gave a quick tap to Hunter with her heels. He picked up his pace.