Catching the Wind(45)

Gravel crackled under tires on the driveway, and Quenby looked up to see the glow of headlamps creeping toward her from the far side of the house. A red tractor parked in a nearby shed, and then a man crossed the driveway before entering the farmhouse.

She hopped out of the tree and moved toward the front door to let him know she was waiting on his property. And ask him if he knew the location of the Mill House.

The man answered seconds after she rang the bell. He was about ten years older than her and had a chestnut-colored beard trimmed above the collar of his T-shirt. With a glance over her shoulder, he searched the driveway for her vehicle.

“I was on the public footpath behind your house,” she explained. “My ride’s not here yet—”

“Always glad to have company.” His gaze fell to her mud-coated trainers. Then they wandered much too slowly back up to her face as if she were a portrait at an exhibition. Or a pint of beer. “I can drive you into town.”

She thought briefly about calling Lucas, telling him there was no need to come, but a cacophony of warning sirens blared in her mind. Lucas could tease all he liked. He might annoy her, but he wasn’t creepy. Jury was out on the man before her.

“No thanks.” She took a step back. “My friend will be here soon.”

The sooner, the better.

“But you still decided to knock.”

She pulled her mobile out of her purse. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the woodlands behind your farm.”

He opened the door wider. “Come on inside.”

She eyed the dimly lit corridor behind him. “I need to wait here for my friend.”

He leaned against the doorpost, crossed his arms. “What questions do you have?”

She debated asking about the Mill House but decided she didn’t want to alert him to her destination in the morning. “I’m searching for an old road named Kelmore.”

“There are several overgrown roads near the mill.”

“Who owns the mill?”

“The government does now. My family tried to buy the property from the Ricker family, back in the 1930s, but they refused to sell it.”

Her head jolted. “Did you say the Rickers?”

He nodded. “Do you know the family?”

“I’ve heard of them.” Her heart raced, but she didn’t want to tip her hand. “I thought the Kelmore family owned the property by the river.”

“The Kelmores built the mill a long time ago. The Rickers, on the other hand, let it go to ruin.”

“When did the mill close?”

“After the First World War,” he said. “It was too far gone to open back up during the second war.”

The pieces tumbled around in her mind, trying to fit into place. Why exactly did Lady Ricker send Olivia to live on their property here, after the mill closed? Or did Olivia come on her own accord, knowing that the mill was abandoned?

“I can show you the mill tomorrow,” the man said.

Before she responded, a car plowed up the driveway, brakes squealing as it stopped in front of the house. At first Quenby thought Lucas had made record time, but when the car door slammed, a woman dressed in a fuchsia blouse and tight jeans marched toward the stairs. When she reached the top, she critiqued Quenby up and down like the man had done, except there was no appreciation in her eyes.

“I’m Kyle’s girlfriend,” she said briskly. “Who are you?”

Quenby chose the simple explanation. “A walker.”

The woman moved around her, kissing her boyfriend. Then she stood beside him, one hand knotted into her hip, as if Quenby were a threat.

Quenby wanted to laugh. There’d be no competition from her.

“Thank you for your help.” She backed farther away from the door. “I’ll leave you to your company.”

Kyle stepped toward her. “Are you certain you don’t need a ride?”

“Quite certain.”

“Because I need to fetch a few things from town—”

The woman gripped his arm. “She said she was certain, Kyle.”

Quenby glanced at her phone. “My guy will be here any moment.”

Thankfully Kyle’s girlfriend shut the door.





Chapter 27




Mill House, February 1941

Brigitte batted Roger’s hand away, not wanting him to touch her, but he kept tugging on her arm in the darkness, insisting that she stand.

Frau Terrell hovered over them with a candle, the light dancing wildly on the wall as if her hands were shaking. Why didn’t the woman tell Roger to stop?

“We need you, girl,” he said in German, but she rolled over, her nose pressed against the wall.

Last night she’d tried to sleep under the cot, like she’d done in the Terrells’ home, but something—a rat or mouse—scampered over her leg. Scared, she’d leapt up and spent a sleepless night on the cot. Tonight she’d had no problem falling asleep.

Wind rattled the window, not far from her bed, and she could hear the rats now, rustling near the wall.

Roger yanked on her sleeve, forcing her to turn toward him again. “Get up.”

Her eyes shut, Brigitte clung to the edges of her cot, praying he would go away. Give up. Praying they would both leave her alone.