Light to the Hills: A Novel (12)
“Racehorse?” his daddy had said. “If the Jessups had links to any racehorse people, I reckon I’d know of it. That boy’s so dumb he could throw hisself on the ground and miss.” The joke, Gripp saw, was him.
A cold fog of loneliness had lowered itself into Gripp’s gut, one Gripp reckoned had never quite burned off. He was meant for bigger things, better things than a country lawyer’s daughter and being the butt of his own family’s joke. A foul, sour taste rose in his mouth and he spit into the dust. His own daddy had made a fool of him without missing a beat. Gripp didn’t need to be told twice.
Before he hopped a train for the first time that afternoon, Gripp headed back to the only home he’d ever known. He could still picture the scene in his mind’s eye, clear as a bell. The last of the morning’s fire smoldered in the hearth, unraveling in a thin ribbon of smoke up the stone chimney, and the cast-iron skillet hung on a hook over the stove. By the door, his daddy’s empty work boots flopped open, and Nola’s extra dress hung on a row of pegs alongside a pair of chambray shirts she’d recently stitched for his brothers. Gripp found nothing that belonged to him alone; it was as if he were already gone.
He mashed a hat down on his head and knotted up a sheet bundled with one of the chambray shirts, the little bit of money he had, and his daddy’s filled lunch pail. He caught sight of his daddy’s pistol where it rested on its shelf near the door. Might as well take his inheritance now. Not much chance of any leavings on down the road. A leather pouch of hand-filled bullets hung beside it, and he tossed that inside the sheet, too.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Gripp mumbled. “Since you’re offering.” Nola’s sneering words echoed through Gripp’s head: “If that boy had an idea, it’d die of loneliness.” He snugged up a rope around Nola’s hound’s neck and decided he’d bring him along. Might be worth trading for a meal along the way. The whistle of the distant train drifted across the mountain ridge like the call of a lonely owl.
Gripp still took grim satisfaction in imagining Nola’s face when she came home to find the dog gone. He’d waited far too long to light out from that place. Now, here he was again, back on the rails, riding to the next adventure. Smug pride painted the semblance of a smile on his lips.
The train slowed, and sure enough, Gripp recognized the station in the distance from when he’d been here last. It apparently hadn’t changed as much as he had. Gripp shook his head, thinking of his partner and how the whole business had gone south.
He’d met Frank Rye riding the L&N, same as him. Right off, he’d figured Frank for a decent partner—he was strong, kept his nose out of people’s business, wasn’t too straitlaced. The man was clearly putting distance between him and some matter he’d rather forget, so they had that, at least, in common. Together they’d worked a beauty of a scheme that ended with Frank losing their take on a horse race. After that, Frank wouldn’t go within a mile of a track, and Gripp kept a ledger to make sure Frank paid him every penny he’d wagered.
But wouldn’t you know, on the road into the next town, Frank’d fallen for a preacher’s daughter, and Gripp’s plans for debt payment and a ready-made business partner threatened to crumble like cornbread. Briefly, it crossed his mind that Frank’s wife might still be around, but what trouble could she cause? Nothing a man’s hand couldn’t fix.
He bargained on needing some help in setting up an operation again. If he kept his eyes peeled, he’d likely find a feller down on his luck enough to cast in with him. He hiked up his pants and got ready to jump.
Chapter 5
Sass woke to the clang of the cast-iron skillet against the stove top. That’d be Mama, up with the birds, tinkering with breakfast. She rubbed her eyes and turned her head to the right, where Hiccup, two fingers tangled in her hair, lay between her and Fern. Cricket was somewhere on Fern’s other side, likely twisted in the quilt to gain purchase for a few more inches of its warmth. With Sass and Cricket being on the ends, Fern said they tugged back and forth on the quilt so much that she and Hiccup might just go up in flames like sticks of kindling.
This morning, Sass let the covers go and slipped out of bed to the kitchen. She made a quick trip to the privy outside and stopped to pick a handful of Queen Anne’s lace on her way back, with a sprig of yarrow for a touch of yellow. A fat red-tailed hawk perched on a far hickory limb, and Sass caught its movement as it preened its speckled breast in the morning sun. Since they’d cut hay, there’d be more than a few hawks about, chasing field mice and rabbits now that their cover was laid bare. She glanced at the chicken pen, where, for now, the hens seemed safe from the big bird.
“That pretties the place up right nice,” said Rai when she saw Sass’s fistful of wildflowers. “I set a jar on the table already. Saw you picking ’em through the window.” The smell of fried potatoes and onions already filled the small cabin, and Sass scooted into a chair at the table to wait for her share. The book woman’s book lay on the table in front of her, and she stole the chance to study it without the others’ chatter and interruptions.
She looked at the pictures for clues. There was a boy, his toy rabbit, and a big toy horse that looked old and worn. Her eyes trailed aimlessly over the words, some short, some long, all a puzzle she couldn’t solve. Only one letter Sass recognized—it was curved like a snake, and she remembered her mama drawing it in the dirt once in the garden.