Dark Angel (Casteel 2)

"He said Skeeter Burl would drive him home . . ."

"Skeeter Burl did drive him a few times to and from church, but he was killed in a hunting accident about two months ago."

Why would Grandpa tell me a lie? Unless he'd lost touch with reality and had forgotten. And of course, Grandpa had forgotten reality the day his Annie died .

Logan fell into another prolonged silence, as did I. The world had lost a mean man when Skeeter Burl departed, even if he had favored Grandpa with a ride or two.

Using all the shortcuts it was seven miles from Winnerrow to our cabin. This road made it three times that distance. My fuzzy mind tried to sort out clues. "Why aren't you in Boston? Doesn't your school start in late August?"

"Why aren't you?"

"I'm planning to fly back to Boston tomorrow afternoon . . ." I said vaguely.

"If the rain stops," he said flatly.

The rain came down in torrents. I'd never seen such rain except in early spring. This was the kind of strong driving rain that turned small creeks and springs into tiger rivers that tore down bridges and uprooted trees, and flooded the banks. Sometimes in the Willies it had rained for a week, and more, and when it was over, lakes of water had kept us from going anywhere, even to school.

And Troy was expecting me to return late tomorrow. I'd have to call him as soon as I got back to Winnerrow. Another few miles passed. "How are your parents?" I asked.

"Fine," he answered shortly, discouraging me from asking more.

"I'm glad to hear that."

At this point he turned off the main highway, and now the road turned into hardly more than a dirt path full of deep ruts flooded with water. The rain still sluiced down, slashing at the windshield, at the windows on my side. Logan switched off the wipers, and leaned forward to peer ahead. I'd never seen Logan look so hard before, so unaccommodating. Then he moved suddenly, seizing hold of my left hand, and for seconds he stared at the huge diamond on my ring finger. "I see," he said, dropping my hand as if he never wanted to touch me again.

I clamped my lips together, sealed my mind, and tried to think of something but the way Our Jane and Keith had rejected me. That horrible sense of loss clung to me like old rotting moss.

Paying strict attention to the road, Logan said nothing more, and it was with relief that he turned into the space that represented the yard of the mountain cabin I'd not expected to see again.

This time I came to the cabin where I'd been born, with Boston perspective, my sensibilities trained now to appreciate beauty and fine construction; my taste cultivated with an eye for the best that life had to offer. So I sat, ready to feel appalled and disgusted; ready to wonder how anyone could want to go back . . back to that! I could see it all in my mind's eye, the listing, ramshackled shack with the sagging front porch, the old wood gone silvery and streaked with stains from the tin roof. The dirt yard grown over with weeds and brambles, though the puddles of rainwater would conceal the worst, and I wouldn't look toward the outhouse and worry about how Grandpa managed to shuffle himself back and forth. I had to see the Reverend in the morning. Then I had to return to Troy.

Logan was parking the car, and I had to look, had to face up to the horror of Grandpa out here, alone in the rain, half-protected by a leaky roof, with the ghost of his wife on a night when the wind was blowing, and that always made the cabin so drafty.

I sat staring, barely giving credence to what I saw. The listing cabin was gone!

In its place was a strong-looking, well-made log cabin, the kind city men called "hunting lodges."

Surprise almost had me paralyzed. "How?" I asked. "Who?"

Logan gripped the wheel hard, as if to keep from shaking sense into me. Nor did he look my way as we sat on in the parked car. And inside the cabin lights shone. Electricity! I was trapped in disbelief, feeling this was a dream.

"From the way I've heard it, your grandpa was unhappy living in Georgia where it is flat and stifling hot," explained Logan, "and he didn't know anyone there. He missed the hills. He missed Winnerrow. And from what Tom wrote me, you sent him hundreds of dollars last October to pay for a few of his 'critters' and that got him going. He wanted to go back to where he could see his Annie. And he had that money you mailed him, so he came back. Tom has contributed his share of money, too, he works night and day. The old cabin was torn down, and this one was put up. It didn't take but twelve weeks, and still it is a very nice cabin inside. Don't you want to go in and see? Or are you planning to leave the old man alone with the ghost who shares his home?"

How could I tell Logan it wouldn't make any difference if I stayed or went, Grandpa would still live with his beloved ghost, no matter what. But I couldn't say it. Instead I stared at the two-story cabin. Even from the outside I could tell it was nice inside. There were two sets of triple windows across the front that had to allow lots of sunshine to flood inside. I remembered the two small rooms that had always been dim and smoky, with never enough light or fresh air. What a difference six windows could make!

And I did want to see the inside, of course I did. But I was feeling peculiar, quivering one second from chills, flushed and hot the next. My joints began to ache more severely; even my stomach felt rebellious.

I opened the passenger door of the car and said, "I can walk back to town, Logan, tomorrow morning. You don't have to wait for me."

I slammed the door, uncomfortable with old times now that I'd adjusted to new times, and running against the cold rain, I entered the log cabin. To my astonishment the cabin, which had seemed small on the outside, had a large living room where Grandpa was on his hands and knees, busy fiddling with the logs he hoped to burn in the stone fireplace that reached the ceiling and spread across one entire side of the room. There were fine, heavy brass andirons, a handsome firescreen, and a heavy grate, and even before a match was lit, the house was already warm. Pulled close to the hearth, situated on a large braided rug such as Granny had once made from old nylon stockings given to her by the church bazaar ladies, were the two old rockers that Granny and Grandpa had used on the porch of the old cabin. And in the winter they had been brought inside. They were the only articles of furniture left from the original cabin.

Two chairs that looked old, faded, worn, and yet they touched me as none of the new furniture did.

"Annie . . . didn't I tell ya she were here?" said Grandpa excitedly, reaching to lay his gnarled hand on the arm of the best rocker where his wife used to sit. "She's come t'stay, Annie. Our Heaven girl, come t'take kerr of us in our time of need."

Oh, dear God, I couldn't stay!

Troy was waiting for me!