Hunter sat in a comfortable chair, staring at the fireplace. She admired how he had handled the minister earlier. Hunter had been much nicer than she could have been.
Kneeling at his knee, she whispered, "It's very late." Her hand rested lightly on his leg. She could feel his leg muscle tighten to her touch, as if he resented her closeness.
For a moment he looked at her as though she were a stranger he remembered seeing somewhere. "You need to go up and get some sleep," he said matter-of-factly. "The room at the end of the hall, on the left, was my mother's. You can sleep there." With a tired sigh he leaned back, resting his head against the back of the chair. His handsome face was outlined in gold by the firelight. The desire to touch him was a deep ache within her, but there was a coldness about him she'd never seen before. She'd seen the young boy of years ago in Hunter's face. Gray eyes so capable of fire showed only the frozen coldness of steel now. He must have withdrawn like this when his mother died. He would cry out for no one, and no one would touch him.
"You need some rest too." Perry's words were soft and filled with concern. "The minister will be back in the morning. You handled him wonderfully."
"I learned a long time ago never to antagonize a fool. You never know which way he'll react. He'll be useful tomorrow to read over the graves. Then we can forget him."
Hunter grew silent once more. When he spoke again, his voice sounded far away. "My grandparents told me years ago where to put them to rest. At the time I never thought much about it. There's a little hill a few hundred yards up the stream. Grandmother used to have picnics up there. I remember playing by the stream as they sat on the grass watching me."
"That sounds like a wonderful place," Perry added, not knowing what else to say.
He reached over and covered her hand with his own. "Thanks… for being here."
"I cared for them a great deal…" She wanted to add, "and for you," but she wasn't sure he'd welcome her caring now.
He spoke into the fire. "It's very late." He seemed to have pulled away into a shell. "I think I'll sit here for a while."
Perry moved away, knowing Hunter wanted time alone. She climbed the stairs. Suddenly the house seemed cold and bare. She found her room and within a few minutes was curled into bed. The room was small but homey. A large patchwork quilt was spread over the bed and a shelf of poetry books lined one wall. A worn, overstuffed chair sat beside a small table by the window. Perry guessed Hunter's mother must have spent hours reading in that chair. Perry could picture in her mind what this farm must have been like thirty years ago. Love must have warmed the house as death cooled it now. Maybe Hunter was right, Perry thought. Pulling away from people is less painful in the end.
She'd have to wake up very early to get everything ready for the funeral, but sleep eluded her. She kept listening for Hunter's steps on the stairs but they never came. Finally Perry fell into a fitful sleep.
By five the next morning, Perry was dressed and ready to go downstairs. She heard Hunter moving about in the room across the hall from her and wondered if he'd slept at all. With Mary gone, Perry quietly supervised the running of the house. She felt strange doing so, but she knew there was no one else to do it. The two maids were lost in grief and barely any help at all. Some people bear their grief on the outside, Perry realized, while others, like Hunter, hold it deep inside.
As the sun marked almost noon without giving any warmth, the funeral passed like a slow-moving dream. The small procession walked from the house, following the wagon carrying the coffins up the hill. Though the day was cloudy and cold, all except the minister were too numb with grief to comment. The maids cried in waves, first wailing loudly, then whimpering and sniffling. About the time everyone believed them quiet, another wave of wailing would resound.
As the minister read from the Bible and prayed, Perry glanced around her. In spring this spot would be beautiful, with trees shading it on the left and the stream babbling on the right. Her attention was brought back to the funeral by Dr. Moore blowing his nose. She knew not a day of his life would now pass without him remembering and missing John and Mary. He had not enough time left on this earth to build another such friendship.
As the little group walked slowly back to the house, Perry silently slipped her hand into Hunter's. She needed to touch someone, even if he didn't seem to need her. He looked at her in surprise, as though he'd forgotten her presence. She could feel the distance between them even as they touched.
Hunter's hand was warm to Perry's fingers. As they walked, he brought her hand to his face and blew his warm breath over her icy fingers. Though his actions were caring, his mind seemed far away.
After an almost untouched lunch he began pacing the large living area, as though he'd been assigned it as duty. One by one the neighbors came to pay their respects, each telling of his own sorrow. Hunter listened quietly and thanked each for coming; yet he remained detached. Perry stayed in the background. She had Eva serve tea and greet the guests while she moved about in unnoticed silence.
By mid-afternoon, clouds covered the sky, the wind grew colder, and the visitors stopped coming. When a door slammed somewhere in the front of the house, Perry moved to the kitchen window in time to see Hunter heading toward the barn. In another minute she watched him ride out like a man being chased. He vanished into the foggy gray air.
She worked around the house the rest of the afternoon, making an early supper, then sending the exhausted maids home. They were anxious to reach their small cottage before the dark clouds began to vent their wrath. Perry told them to sleep late tomorrow, for she would prepare Hunter's breakfast.
As night came, so did a steady rain, slamming into the house with vigor. Perry paced in front of the windows after she'd given up all other efforts to keep busy. Minutes dragged by as she studied the darkness for any sign of Hunter.
At ten Perry gave up waiting downstairs and decided to go up to her room and read. Hunter may have stopped somewhere for the night, she reasoned. Maybe he didn't want to return to this house filled with memories. Whatever his reason, Perry thought, he probably would be no more interested in seeing her tonight than he had been all day. She felt she'd been of little comfort to him.
Removing her shoes, she curled her legs underneath her in the comfortable chair in her room. She picked up one of the books of poetry and began to read.
The old clock in the hall was chiming midnight as she heard the front door open and close. At first she sighed with relief at Hunter's coming in from the storm. Then the thought occurred to her that it might not be him. Suddenly the realization that she was alone in the house struck her.
Slipping silently off her chair, she reached for her derringer on the nightstand. A noise echoed from across the hall. She moved out of her room and into the darkened hall without making a sound. What if someone had been watching the house? They might think this is a good time for a robbery.
She saw a dim light coming from the room across from hers. She cautiously moved to the half-open door. Peeking in, she breathed a sigh of relief. Hunter sat by the small fire, his legs spread wide as he relaxed in a chair. He'd removed his boots, and a soaked coat lay on the floor beside him. His hair was wet with rain and his face as stormy as the clouds outside his window. He watched the fire, studying its every pattern.
After a few minutes he glanced up at her with tired gray eyes. "Come in if you wish," he said flatly. Looking down at her gun, he laughed without humor. "Planning to threaten to shoot me again with my mother's gun?"
Perry looked surprised and lowered the gun. "Oh, no, I thought you might be a robber." She moved closer. "I didn't know this belonged to your mother."
"I didn't tell you because I wanted you to have it." He stared into the fire, yet his body seemed oblivious to its warmth.