Twenty
“Uncle Wynn” was Wynford Chace, Michael’s mother’s older brother. He wore working man’s clothes – heavy jeans, flannel shirt tucked in at the waist, canvas jacket and ball cap – but there his resemblance to her father and uncle ended. He was a tall, broad man, with a square face softened by age and weight, his cheeks ruddy in the crisp weather, his mouth one that seemed eager to tug into a smile. His iron gray hair was clipped in an outdated style, with a broad sweep across his forehead.
On the sidewalk in front of the apartment, he’d pulled Michael into a bear hug. “Missed you, boy.”
And then he’d turned to Holly, and he’d beamed. “I’ll be damned, you found yourself a woman, and ain’t she the prettiest little thing.” He’d pulled her hand into his great bear paw of a mitt and given it a gentle shake. “Wynford Chace, ma’am. Nice to meet ya.”
Holly had been charmed, and terrified. She’d been about to climb into a truck with a total stranger in the middle of the night, and her heart had been hammering mercilessly at her ribs.
She’d overheard Michael tell his uncle that she was his “old lady” and that he was scared he couldn’t keep her safe in Knoxville. Both admissions had knocked the breath out of her. But before she could marvel at either, he’d turned to her one last time and said, “Don’t do anything stupid, and let Wynn look out for you. He’s good at that.” He’d squeezed her arms, and his eyes had grown wide and meaningful in the harsh light of the streetlamp. “Don’t be worried,” he’d whispered. “I trust him with my life.”
That had been forty-five minutes ago, and now slender deer leapt away from the shoulder of the road as the headlights skimmed over them. The farther from Knoxville they traveled, the blacker the night became, only the occasional glow from a security light in front of someone’s farmhouse or barn giving her any sense of distance. And those were set well back off the road, illuminating swaths of field, of barnyard, of gravel driveways. They were in the country, and the Dodge’s diesel engine churned as the headlights sliced through the dark ahead of them, lighting up the bloodied remains of fresh roadkill, unfortunate possums and raccoons.
Slowly, during their drive, she’d felt the knot of tension in her belly begin to relax. She was still frightened for Michael – what his club would do to him for disobeying – but her fear for herself was waning down to a thin sliver.
Wynn had kept up a steady stream of chatter about his farm and the dogs he raised. As she stared through the windshield, he took a breath and said, “I feel like maybe I oughta say this, in case you’re wondering – Michael ain’t in the habit of asking me to put young ladies up at the farm. This ain’t usual for him.”
A soft laugh built in her throat. “I didn’t figure it was. He’s not exactly a ladies’ man, from everything I can tell.”
Wynn released a breath that sounded relieved. “No. Not Michael. That’s not how he plays it.” He was making a face when she glanced over, his profile limned in blue dash light. “Come to think of it, I don’t know how he plays it. He always kept that stuff real close to the vest.”
She smiled. “Kinda like he keeps everything.”
Wynn chuckled. “Yeah, that’s about right.”
He slowed the truck and they took a right.
Holly’s stomach gave a leap, but she forced it quiet, pressing a hand to it. Safe, she reminded herself. You’re safe. She had to trust Michael on this, and thereby trust Wynn.
“If he’s ever had a real girlfriend, though,” Wynn continued. “I’ve never met one of ‘em. You’re the first.” He turned to shoot her a broad smile through the cab before he glanced back at the road. “I’ve been telling him he oughta settle down. Have a couple kids. I always tell him not to wait too late and do things like I did ‘em, but he never listened. Never used to listen,” he corrected. “But now there’s you.”
“Now there’s me,” she murmured, still stunned with Michael’s fierce claim of ownership.
“You want kids?”
Dread passed through her at the idea. Girls who’d been tied to bed and raped by their blood relations had no business passing on that blood – or rearing children, for that matter. She never allowed herself the fantasy of motherhood; it was too dangerous.
“I haven’t thought about it much,” she said, and that wasn’t a lie.
“Well, you know, Michael may be quiet, and not always in the best of moods, but he’d make a good daddy to his little ones.”
The image of her stern-faced man changing a diaper popped into her head, smoothing away the anguish of her sudden glimpse of motherhood. “You think?”
“Oh, I know. Ain’t nobody more dedicated and responsible than Michael. You can take that to the bank.”
The truck slowed again, and they turned right once more, onto a driveway that was two uneven gravel tracks in the brown winter grass. Trees grew up tall on either side, branches lacing together overhead, creating a tunnel straight out of a children’s fairy book. All this she saw with the headlights, along with the tubular steel gate that stood open, pushed back against one of its heavy railroad tie posts. A wooden sign to the left of the drive proclaimed this place as Chaceaway Farm, Breeders of Quality Great Dane and Bluetick Hound Dogs.
“Home sweet home,” Wynn said, and the truck rumbled down the drive, swaying when it hit ruts, lurching as they went around one bend and then another.
Finally the trees fell away and they emerged in a clearing. She could see the two-story log home Michael had described to her while they waited for Wynn, buttery light spilling from its windows out onto the lawn, highlighting segments of the wraparound porch. A cozy beacon in the dark, it invited the progress of the truck, right up to the doors of the detached garage. Behind it, she glimpsed the corner of a large, darkened building she guessed must be the barn.
There was an excited flutter in her stomach. She’d grown up on a property that had once been a farm – if one could call it “growing up.” But she’d never set foot on a real working farm, and she was giddy as a little girl, suddenly, at the idea of seeing this one in the daylight tomorrow.
She opened the truck door the second they were parked and the smells of sawdust and sweet hay rushed into her lungs, mixed with a faint stink of dog leavings.
“Do you have any other animals besides the dogs?” she asked, curious about the distinctive hay smell.
“Oh yeah, sure. I got some goats. Got a milk cow. Got a couple donkeys to keep her company.”
As if on cue, a high, nasal bray came from the barn, muffled by the walls, but unmistakable.
She laughed.
“You get quiet, Cletus,” Wynn called. “It ain’t time for breakfast yet.” To her, he said, “I feed about six most mornings.”
“That’s early.”
“Animals like to get up early.” He pulled her bag from the narrow backseat. “Come on, then, and we’ll get you settled.”
As they walked across the gravel parking pad toward the house, she heard the dogs get cranked up, a chorus of barks and howls that came from somewhere near the barn. She tensed, not sure if she should expect a pack of hounds to barrel around the corner and crash into them.
“They’re in the kennels,” Wynn explained. “Only Cass and Delilah are in the house.”
“It sounds like you have a lot of them,” she said, releasing a deep, relieved breath.
“Not as many as I used to.”
Their footsteps echoed on the wooden porch steps and by the time they reached the front door, Holly could hear a soft whining on the other side of it. She stood well behind Wynn as he unlocked and opened the door; in the threshold, framed by the warm light inside the house, stood a massive black and white Great Dane.
To be fair, Holly thought, all Great Danes were massive, but this one seemed not only long-legged, but solid and broad too. As it danced backward, head flung back, panting in exuberant greeting to its master, she saw the pendulous weights of distended teats along the dog’s belly. A female, either nursing or about to have her pups.
“Hey there, beautiful.” Wynn stroked the Dane’s large head a moment, then lifted his index finger. Immediately, the dog sat in response to the silent command. Over his shoulder, he said, “Holly, come in and meet Delilah. And don’t be nervous,” he said, as if reading her thoughts, “she’s gentle as an old housecat.”
Well, she’d shaken hands with creatures more terrifying than this, hadn’t she? She stepped into the doorway and let the dog sniff the back of her hand. Delilah snuffled a moment, wet nose kissing along Holly’s knuckles. Then she licked her fingers and opened her jaws in a happy panting dog-smile.
“Alright, out of the way, Delilah,” Wynn said, shooing the Dane back, and ushering Holly fully inside so he could shut the door.
They stood in an open room full of comfortable-looking leather furniture, heavy tables topped with lamps, and a wide stone fireplace. Split firewood was heaped in a rack beside the hearth. A desk beneath the front window housed a flat-screen computer and a disarray of paperwork, folders, coffee mugs and pens. It was warm, and it smelled like pine solvent. It gave off an impression of being clean, though cluttered: dog leashes on the tables, abandoned shoes, a hat set on top of one lampshade, its shadow projected onto the ceiling.
Then she saw the other dog, the one Wynn had called Cass. This one was jet black, and as it unfolded itself from a dog bed in the corner, she saw that this one was taller, leaner, more muscular than Delilah. A more powerful beast she couldn’t imagine.
It approached with obvious reserve, not nervous, but cautious of the stranger.
“Come here, boy,” Wynn called to it, snapping his fingers. To Holly, he said, “This is Cassius,” the words ringing with pride. “He’s my top stud dog.”
“I can see why.”
Cassius went to his owner, snuffled his hand in greeting, and then turned his watchful black eyes on Holly.
She offered the back of her hand, as she had with Delilah, and he gave it one disinterested sniff before sitting down at his master’s feet.
“He’ll come around,” Wynn said. “Let’s go see where you can stay.”
She nodded, exhaustion tugging at her suddenly. She’d forgotten, in the adrenaline rush of fleeing the bar, packing, meeting Wynn, that she was too tired for words. Now it hit her all at once, a cruel slap.
Wynn carried her bag and led her past a very rustic kitchen up a flight of stairs to the second story. It was a long, narrow hallway at the top, and he led her all the way down it through an open door, clicking on lights as he went. It was a bedroom with rough-hewn timber walls; upstairs, sheetrock had never been installed, and these were the heavy logs of the home framing the room. The bedframe was dark wood, the bed itself made up with white pillows and a light blue quilt that looked sun-faded, threadbare in spots. A carved wooden lamp on the nightstand provided a muted amber light, just enough to give her a glimpse of the framed photos on the wall, the small collection of trophies and ribbons on top of the dresser. Through the window, she glimpsed a dim light; the security bulbs over the barn door, she saw, as she peeked out.
Wynn set her bag on the bed and surveyed the room, inhaling deeply. “It’s a bit musty. Sorry ‘bout that. He don’t visit too often.”
“This is Michael’s room,” she said, knowing it was true, warmth surging through her as she absorbed the ghostly imprint of his presence. She turned to Wynn. “You raised him, didn’t you?”
He nodded, expression becoming careful. “That’s a story for the daylight.”
She nodded in return, eyes going to the pictures on the walls, a slender boy poised with Great Danes, a dog show. She wanted to step close and press her fingertips to Michael’s former face, his child self, but she held back, not wanting to do so in front of a stranger.
“Bathroom’s across the hall,” Wynn said. “You need anything? Something to eat?”
“No.” She sank down on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. “No, thank you. I think…I think I want to try and sleep.”
“Okay, sweetheart. I’m right down the hall if you need me.”
His footsteps receded down the hall and she felt herself relaxing further, his departure releasing another unacknowledged tension. She trusted him because Michael said she could – not because she did so herself. Not yet, anyway.
She had time to figure that out, she guessed, as she stared at the black windows.
Michael had time too. And God knew what he’d figure out. Maybe she didn’t want to know.