Walk on Earth a Stranger
Page 8“I said I dunno.”
“Did he come home after school?”
“Mebbe.”
Something snaps inside me. “Think for one lousy minute, will you? I’m in a heap of hurt, and I need to talk to your boy.”
Mr. McCauley recoils. “Watch your swearing tongue, girl.”
My fists clench with the need to bust his bright red nose. It’s a testament to my fine character that I turn tail and jog away. I’ll find Jefferson myself.
The door slams behind me, so I’m surprised to feel Nugget’s damp nose in my palm as I head toward the outhouse.
I pause at the door. It’s powerful improper for me to bang on it with Jefferson inside. No help for it. I raise my fist to knock when the crack of an ax rents the air.
Relieved, I lift my petticoats and run toward the ramshackle building that was intended to be a barn but never got finished and became a woodshed instead.
Jefferson is behind it, sleeves rolled up past his elbows and ax in hand, splitting firewood on one of the larger stumps. The moment he sees me, he frowns and drops his ax. “Lee?”
And suddenly I’m clutch-hugging myself, and my words are jumbling all over one another, and I hardly know what I’m saying except that the word “dead” hangs in the air, sharper and more final than the crack of an ax on a chopping block.
His arms come up around my shoulders, and he pulls me close. He smells familiar and safe, like fresh woodchips and loamy soil, and finally I cry—great gulping cries that dampen his shirt.
So I do. His face is grave as I talk. Even though my dinner is turning round and round in my belly, and my words come spilling out all over themselves, Jefferson just stands calm and ponders like a man twice his years.
“Maybe it was bandits,” he says, though I can tell he doesn’t put much stock in the idea.
“They didn’t take anything. Only thing missing was one of Daddy’s boots.”
“How long ago were they shot, do you think?”
“I heard the shots when I was on the way home. Mama was still alive when I found her. And Daddy’s . . . The blood hadn’t froze. Jeff, he rushed out the door with his boots still in hand. Why would he do that?”
Jeff’s hand finds the small of my back and guides me toward the cabin. I stumble keeping up with his long legs. “Where—”
“I’m getting my gun,” he says. “Maybe your daddy heard a shot and ran outside.”
Nugget trots along beside us. “Wouldn’t he have grabbed his own gun first? He just ran outside. Like . . . like . . .”
Jefferson stops cold, and I almost bang into his shoulder. “Like he knew the person. Someone he was powerful glad to see.”
I nod up at him. “Who would Daddy . . .” A sick worry wriggles around in my chest. “Mama said . . . before she . . . She told me to run.”
“She thought the murderer was still nearby.”
“This is bad, isn’t it?” I say.
“We’ll figure it, I promise. Did you bring a gun?”
“The cap and ball. Loaded it on the way here. All five shots.”
“Good. Nugget, stay here with Lee. I’ll be right back.” He flings the door open and disappears into the murky cabin.
Jefferson never lets me in. He doesn’t want me to know how bad it is between him and his da, and he doesn’t realize I’ve already guessed about the moonshine still that’s hidden inside. There are things even best friends don’t tell each other.
Nugget leans against my leg, and I bend down to scritch her neck. We’ve always gotten along, Nugget and me.
A thump echoes inside the cabin, then Mr. McCauley yells something loud and angry. Jefferson strides out a moment later, rifle in hand. He won’t meet my eye, just heads over to the goat pen, Nugget and me at his heels.
He grabs the sorrel mare; they’ve never named the poor girl, just call her “the sorrel mare,” and they keep her penned for lack of a proper barn. Jefferson mounts up, and I use the fence to climb up on Peony, and off we go. Jefferson leads us southward, toward my house.
“We’re going back?” I thought we’d go for help.
His voice is gentle as he says, “No use getting Doc now. And no murderer with a lick of sense would stick around after doing the deed.”
I stare blankly.
“Oh.” Tears threaten to spill again. I can imagine it now. Annabelle Smith and her mother coming by with their peach pie and their slick words of sympathy and their darting eyes. Sheriff Weber searching the whole homestead for “clues,” opening cupboards and shifting hay bales and maybe even prying up floorboards.
“I need to hide . . . until everything’s settled.” The words make me feel heartless and cold. Necessity is a harsh master, Mama used to say. Bet she didn’t anticipate that necessity would make me look to our gold even before giving her a proper burial.
“It’s true, isn’t it,” Jefferson says, his voice suddenly wistful.
“It’s true,” I whisper.
“All right, then.” He nods, as though to himself. “We’ll have to be careful and quick. Just in case your mama was right and whoever did this decided to stick around.”
“I’m glad Nugget is with us.”
“She’ll let us know if someone happens by.”
We pass the ridge where Daddy and I started working the new vein, then I cross the tiny cemetery that only has two headstones—one for Orpha the dog, and one for my baby brother who lived three days. Daddy carved them himself. There’ll soon be two more, and I don’t know who will carve them.
Our pace slows even more as we ride through the orchard. Jefferson sits tall on his mare, alert for the slightest strangeness. As we pass the henhouse, something in me screams not to look, but I can’t help glancing that way. The woodpile blocks my view of everything except Mama’s legs. Her skirt is still tucked beneath her ankles.
A shadow passes overhead, and I duck before realizing it’s a great buzzard circling. The first of the scavengers, coming to get what’s mine.