Someone driving into town to run errands, to enjoy an early breakfast at the Hip Hop Café.
And wouldnât that someone have a tale to tell over his biscuits and gravy?
âPicked up Horace Taylorâs girl, the kindergarten teacher, this morninâ. Out on Route 17. Barefoot, and lookinâ wild as a corn-crib rat. Like sheâd been out all night. Yep. Strayed off the main trail, thatâs for certainâ¦.â
Oh, she could just hear the tongues starting to wag.
Once Lily Mae Wheeler got the news, it would be over.
âWell, I do not like to carry tales. But I have to say I saw her last night, sipping champagne at the State Street Grill. With that lawyer, Ross Garrison. I guess we donât have to wonder where they went next. We all know that new house of his is out on Black Bear Lake. And that the way to Black Bear Lake is on Route 17. And honey, here in Whitehorn, we also know what you get when you add two and twoâ¦.â
But no. That wasnât fair to Lily Mae. Lily Mae wouldnât sound like that. She wouldnât judge Lynn. She did have a good heart. But she would talk. Herwords would be kinder, but theyâd say the same things.
And there would be others ready, willing and able to judge.
Because in Whitehorn they not only knew how to add two and two. They also expected their schoolteachers to keep to the main trail.
Oh, God, maybe she should have thought a little harder, after all, before sheâd grabbed up her clothes and fled the bedroom and the man sleeping there.
Her feet slowed.
She clutched the collar of her coat at the neck and looked around her.
The wind had died during the night. The still air smelled of pine. Overhead, a hawk wheeled through the endless sky. Off to the northwest, the twin peaks of the Crazies rose up, craggy and tipped in white, the shadow of one dark across the other as the sun sent a wash of golden light from its rising place in the east.
A slight dusting of frost lay crisp and sparkling over the yellowed grass. Barbed-wire fences stretched on either side of the drive. Cattle, mostly black-baldies, but some Herefords as well, grazed beyond those fences. They lipped up grass, then chewed away patiently, raising their big heads and turning to watch her through eyes that appeared both utterly empty and infinitely wise.
Whose cattle, Lynn wondered, in a pointless effort to distract herself from the absurdity of her predicament. What ranchers grazed their herds out here, along Route 17, by Black Bear Lake?
She didnât know, offhand.
And it didnât matter anyway.
What mattered was that she would have to go back.
Go back and wake him, if he hadnât awakened already.
Go back and ask him to please take her to her Blazer, which still waited in the parking lot at her school.
Her feet dragging now, Lynn reached the two-lane road. She stopped on the cowcatcher, a wide grate across the drive that kept cattle from straying. The air beneath the grate seemed even colder than the ground.
Oh, her poor feet. Covered with dust and aching with cold. And cut up a little bit, too. Theyâd be in even worse shape by the time she limped back to the house.
But what else could she do? She never should have lost her head and run off on her own in the first place.
And what was that sound?
The hum of an engine. Someone was coming. It looked like a pickup, but it was still too far up the road to be sure.
Lynn whipped her head to the left and right, shamelessly seeking someplace to hide.
There was nothing. Just open land and barbed wire and grazing cattle. A single spindly-looking pine stood about twenty feet away. No time to reach it, though, before the vehicle went past. And what kind of cover could it provide anyway? The branches were too thin, the trunk way too narrow. Sheâd only look like the guilty ninny that she was, trying to crouch behind it.
The engine of the approaching vehicle roaredlouder. Closing in. There was little doubt
And wouldnât that someone have a tale to tell over his biscuits and gravy?
âPicked up Horace Taylorâs girl, the kindergarten teacher, this morninâ. Out on Route 17. Barefoot, and lookinâ wild as a corn-crib rat. Like sheâd been out all night. Yep. Strayed off the main trail, thatâs for certainâ¦.â
Oh, she could just hear the tongues starting to wag.
Once Lily Mae Wheeler got the news, it would be over.
âWell, I do not like to carry tales. But I have to say I saw her last night, sipping champagne at the State Street Grill. With that lawyer, Ross Garrison. I guess we donât have to wonder where they went next. We all know that new house of his is out on Black Bear Lake. And that the way to Black Bear Lake is on Route 17. And honey, here in Whitehorn, we also know what you get when you add two and twoâ¦.â
But no. That wasnât fair to Lily Mae. Lily Mae wouldnât sound like that. She wouldnât judge Lynn. She did have a good heart. But she would talk. Herwords would be kinder, but theyâd say the same things.
And there would be others ready, willing and able to judge.
Because in Whitehorn they not only knew how to add two and two. They also expected their schoolteachers to keep to the main trail.
Oh, God, maybe she should have thought a little harder, after all, before sheâd grabbed up her clothes and fled the bedroom and the man sleeping there.
Her feet slowed.
She clutched the collar of her coat at the neck and looked around her.
The wind had died during the night. The still air smelled of pine. Overhead, a hawk wheeled through the endless sky. Off to the northwest, the twin peaks of the Crazies rose up, craggy and tipped in white, the shadow of one dark across the other as the sun sent a wash of golden light from its rising place in the east.
A slight dusting of frost lay crisp and sparkling over the yellowed grass. Barbed-wire fences stretched on either side of the drive. Cattle, mostly black-baldies, but some Herefords as well, grazed beyond those fences. They lipped up grass, then chewed away patiently, raising their big heads and turning to watch her through eyes that appeared both utterly empty and infinitely wise.
Whose cattle, Lynn wondered, in a pointless effort to distract herself from the absurdity of her predicament. What ranchers grazed their herds out here, along Route 17, by Black Bear Lake?
She didnât know, offhand.
And it didnât matter anyway.
What mattered was that she would have to go back.
Go back and wake him, if he hadnât awakened already.
Go back and ask him to please take her to her Blazer, which still waited in the parking lot at her school.
Her feet dragging now, Lynn reached the two-lane road. She stopped on the cowcatcher, a wide grate across the drive that kept cattle from straying. The air beneath the grate seemed even colder than the ground.
Oh, her poor feet. Covered with dust and aching with cold. And cut up a little bit, too. Theyâd be in even worse shape by the time she limped back to the house.
But what else could she do? She never should have lost her head and run off on her own in the first place.
And what was that sound?
The hum of an engine. Someone was coming. It looked like a pickup, but it was still too far up the road to be sure.
Lynn whipped her head to the left and right, shamelessly seeking someplace to hide.
There was nothing. Just open land and barbed wire and grazing cattle. A single spindly-looking pine stood about twenty feet away. No time to reach it, though, before the vehicle went past. And what kind of cover could it provide anyway? The branches were too thin, the trunk way too narrow. Sheâd only look like the guilty ninny that she was, trying to crouch behind it.
The engine of the approaching vehicle roaredlouder. Closing in. There was little doubt
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