Revenge and the Wild(65)

“Okay, now, look at my eyes,” Westie said. When Olive’s gaze met hers, she saw a scared little girl, not the monster she’d seen in the field with all those dead animals. Westie smiled for reassurance, even though she had little faith in her plan. “Are you ready?” Olive’s fear seemed to ebb at the sight of Westie’s smile. She nodded again.

Just as Westie was about to tell her to jump, Olive cried, “Look out!”

Westie glanced back, heart in her throat, mouth opened into a silent scream, as she saw a fallen tree barreling toward her on the water’s surface. There was no time to avoid it; she didn’t even have time to try before the trunk hit her with the force of a steam train.

Though shallow in most parts, the river swallowed Westie down into its black frothy maw, chewing her up on the rocks below. The light tumbled in front of her eyes as she was washed in the current. Clawing at the endless wall of water, she was sure she’d met her end until something tugged at her skirts and she felt herself being dragged to less abrasive waters. When she was in the calm, she looked up to find the dog, his wet coat showing off every rib. He released her skirt from his mouth and began to bark. Westie hugged the dog to her chest as she struggled to catch her breath.

And then she remembered Olive.

The spot where the girl had been was now just a wrinkle on the surface.

Westie stumbled along the shore, her dress like a sack of rocks weighing her down. The dog, as if knowing exactly what she was looking for, hopped along the shore in a happy display of barks and tail wags, leading her directly to Olive’s body, which had washed to shore and caught in the rocks.

“No, no, no.” Westie fell to her knees beside the girl. There was no blood, just a few scratches. Westie tried to pump the water from the girl’s lungs like Alistair had once done to her when the weight of her machine had pulled her down to the bottom of a pond they’d been swimming in, but it was no use.

The girl was gone.

Westie’s hand shook. She wanted to bolt from the scene and go back to where things made sense. Only she wasn’t sure where that place was anymore. She crouched beside the Sacramento River, feeling hot even though the river water was nothing more than melted snow flowing down Shasta Mountain. Thin saliva filled the space under her tongue, and she tasted the salt of sickness. She washed the bloody scratches on her hand and squeezed it into a fist to stop the shaking.

She had to do something, tell someone, but if she went to Alistair or Nigel, they wouldn’t believe it had been an accident. She’d have to keep it a secret. But that didn’t sit right either. There were plenty of secrets in her closet, but this one was too big to keep inside, for as she’d learned when she was young, guilt had teeth, and it ate folks up if they didn’t know how to tame it.

She bundled her knees to her chest and cried a good long time. When the last of her tears were shed, she got up and walked back toward her horse, back toward Rogue City.

Westie had snuck into the house and changed out of her wet clothes without Nigel or Alistair noticing. She stood at the top of the stairs, with the dog she’d rescued nuzzling against her leg. He had to be touching her, as if she were a dream that he feared would flitter away. A search party had been organized, reminding her of the morning after Isabelle disappeared. It had been only four hours since she’d knelt beside Olive at the river. The sun hadn’t even set, but after what had happened to Isabelle, people were on edge and not taking any chances.

When Nigel passed below, he stopped and looked up at her. Déjà vu, they called it in France. Her heart began to race. He came to the top of the stairs and looked at the dog, an eyebrow raised with questions.

“I rescued him,” she said. He only nodded. The tension between them was unmistakable. They were both quiet for a moment. She couldn’t take it any longer, so she asked, “What’s happening?” because that was what someone innocent would say.

“Olivia Fairfield is missing.”

A proper lady would have said, That’s awful, or What can I do to help? She didn’t have it in her. Nigel wouldn’t have believed the act anyway.

Her feet fidgeted beneath her skirt as Nigel watched her. She felt as though her face were a scripture of all her sins.

“I’ll bring news when I find out more,” he said as if she’d asked, then turned on his heels and left.

Westie’s knees bobbed. She waited, worrying about the search. Hours later the party was back. She rushed onto the catwalk to see. Dirt-smeared men beat their hats against their legs, raising clouds of dust. They lumbered around, exhausted and possibly saddened by the search. It was obvious by their gloomy expressions that the girl had been found.

Alistair walked in, looked up at her, and nodded, then retreated to the great room. It hurt her that he hadn’t come to see her since the fight, but that was the least of her problems. Nigel was the last to come through the door. He marched up the stairs. Westie’s stomach roiled with anticipation.

“What happened?” she asked. “Did you find her?”

He wiped at his stubble. It was the longest she’d ever seen his beard. “Yes, she drowned in the river.”

Westie’s hand went to her mouth, which she hoped gave a look of shock instead of the lack of it.

“How did it happen?”

“I’ll tell you more about it later, but first let’s sit. I need to talk to you.”