Read Online Francesca of Lost Nation by Lucinda Sue Crosby - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucinda Sue Crosby
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made our way back to Main House as quietly and quickly as possible. But just a short distance from the house, we heard another sound, this one sharper and much closer. We froze.
Francesca took my hand and silently mouthed one word to me, pointing toward the house, “Run!”
As I took off, someone jumped into the clearing, aiming a twenty gauge at me. I started screaming.
“It’s okay, Sweetchild,” Francesca said, running up to me to hold me.
It was Matthew.
“Are you two alright?” he asked as he walked over to us.
In a month of Sundays, I never thought I would have been relieved to be startled by Matthew Mosley holding a weapon.
“Someone was here,” Francesca explained.
Matthew nodded. “Yep. Last I saw, Babe was chasing after a man, heading toward Lost Nation. I whistled her up, but I couldn't get her attention. Ah, here she is."
Babe trotted over to me and sat down in a puffing heap. I knelt and hugged her hard around the neck.
“Good girl! What a good girl!” I looked up at Matthew and took a deep breath. “Was it the man that burns houses?”
“Could be.”
“Do you think he’ll be back?” Grandmother asked.
“Well, I made sure he saw me with my shotgun. That ought to discourage him. Just the same, we should telephone Daniel.”
“Yes, of course. And thank you.”
“Nothing at all, ma'am.”
He suggested next time we went swimming, to take some extra precautions.
Sheriff Dan stopped by that evening to look around the grounds but didn’t see any traces of an intruder.
“Still, I second Matt's advice. Take a little extra care, you two.”
Then, Sheriff Dan rubbed his hands together.
“Starr is off visiting her mother, and that means our stove is cold tonight. What's for supper?”
* * * * *
My childhood was filled with adventure. I'd knocked down a hive once, by accident, and was chased by some angry bees. I'd broken my finger, swinging on the rope that hung over the fishing pond, and I'd gotten myself scraped and bruised, with the breath knocked out of me a number of times. I’d even fallen off a horse. But except for the occasional nightmare, that experience was the first time in my life I could ever remember feeling real terror.
Chapter 8
Starting Over … Again!
M
idweek was the best time to market, according to my grandmother. She and Rachael relished attending to this pleasant chore, because it “added some welcome distractions.” Though today I would have the honor of accompanying Francesca, I wasn’t the only one going.
We stood on the stoop of the Bridal Cottage, taking in the empty booze and beer bottles.
“Humf,” Francesca grunted.
The windows were closed, but the panes fairly shivered with the raucous snoring coming from inside.
I saw a tell-tale twinkle steal into Francesca’s pale blue eyes. Though her actions often surprised me, I had learned to accept her eccentric “inspirations” unquestioningly by the time I was three years old. So what the heck we were doing disturbing a cantankerous man while he slept off an entire bottle of hard liquor was a question I kept to myself.
KNOCK! KNOCK!! POUND! POUND!!
That should have awakened a hibernating bear, but it didn’t seem to affect Matthew Mosley. Francesca banged on the door harder, with enough vigor to startle a granite boulder.
With a growling “What the Hell?” followed by a crashing sound and more curse words, Mr. Mosley seemed to have risen at last. He flung the door wide and stood at the entrance bleary-eyed and bedraggled in a rumpled robe.
I had never seen a hangover in action before. It wasn’t pretty.
“Sorry to disturb you. Sarah and I are going into town. Can we get you anything? Or would you care to ride along?” Her words were sweet, her intention not very.
He stood silently and glared at Francesca.
“Can we get you anything?” she repeated.
“Give me a moment,” he said and slammed the door
Francesca took my hand and silently mouthed one word to me, pointing toward the house, “Run!”
As I took off, someone jumped into the clearing, aiming a twenty gauge at me. I started screaming.
“It’s okay, Sweetchild,” Francesca said, running up to me to hold me.
It was Matthew.
“Are you two alright?” he asked as he walked over to us.
In a month of Sundays, I never thought I would have been relieved to be startled by Matthew Mosley holding a weapon.
“Someone was here,” Francesca explained.
Matthew nodded. “Yep. Last I saw, Babe was chasing after a man, heading toward Lost Nation. I whistled her up, but I couldn't get her attention. Ah, here she is."
Babe trotted over to me and sat down in a puffing heap. I knelt and hugged her hard around the neck.
“Good girl! What a good girl!” I looked up at Matthew and took a deep breath. “Was it the man that burns houses?”
“Could be.”
“Do you think he’ll be back?” Grandmother asked.
“Well, I made sure he saw me with my shotgun. That ought to discourage him. Just the same, we should telephone Daniel.”
“Yes, of course. And thank you.”
“Nothing at all, ma'am.”
He suggested next time we went swimming, to take some extra precautions.
Sheriff Dan stopped by that evening to look around the grounds but didn’t see any traces of an intruder.
“Still, I second Matt's advice. Take a little extra care, you two.”
Then, Sheriff Dan rubbed his hands together.
“Starr is off visiting her mother, and that means our stove is cold tonight. What's for supper?”
* * * * *
My childhood was filled with adventure. I'd knocked down a hive once, by accident, and was chased by some angry bees. I'd broken my finger, swinging on the rope that hung over the fishing pond, and I'd gotten myself scraped and bruised, with the breath knocked out of me a number of times. I’d even fallen off a horse. But except for the occasional nightmare, that experience was the first time in my life I could ever remember feeling real terror.
Chapter 8
Starting Over … Again!
M
idweek was the best time to market, according to my grandmother. She and Rachael relished attending to this pleasant chore, because it “added some welcome distractions.” Though today I would have the honor of accompanying Francesca, I wasn’t the only one going.
We stood on the stoop of the Bridal Cottage, taking in the empty booze and beer bottles.
“Humf,” Francesca grunted.
The windows were closed, but the panes fairly shivered with the raucous snoring coming from inside.
I saw a tell-tale twinkle steal into Francesca’s pale blue eyes. Though her actions often surprised me, I had learned to accept her eccentric “inspirations” unquestioningly by the time I was three years old. So what the heck we were doing disturbing a cantankerous man while he slept off an entire bottle of hard liquor was a question I kept to myself.
KNOCK! KNOCK!! POUND! POUND!!
That should have awakened a hibernating bear, but it didn’t seem to affect Matthew Mosley. Francesca banged on the door harder, with enough vigor to startle a granite boulder.
With a growling “What the Hell?” followed by a crashing sound and more curse words, Mr. Mosley seemed to have risen at last. He flung the door wide and stood at the entrance bleary-eyed and bedraggled in a rumpled robe.
I had never seen a hangover in action before. It wasn’t pretty.
“Sorry to disturb you. Sarah and I are going into town. Can we get you anything? Or would you care to ride along?” Her words were sweet, her intention not very.
He stood silently and glared at Francesca.
“Can we get you anything?” she repeated.
“Give me a moment,” he said and slammed the door
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