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Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
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the first: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING. Smaller versions of that sign were posted on a number of trees on both sides of the road as they continued to drive.
“This is a public road, right?” Dr. Flo wore a worried frown.
“I sure hope so.” When they saw a dented black mailbox next to a sandy track leading into the woods, Katharine slowed. “Could this be the road?”
“No. Mr. Curtis specifically said to turn at the twenty-miles-an-hour sign. I haven’t seen one of those. Wait—there it is. The road is just beyond it.”
“Road?” Katharine looked in vain for anything more deserving of the name than two ruts of sand centered by a strip of scruffy grass. She also was not thrilled to see another large NO TRESPASSING sign at the entrance to the track.
Dr. Flo peered into the sky. “Hey, Katharine’s daddy, it’s real good she has an SUV.”
Katharine swung the wheel and felt the back fishtail in sand. The forest grew so close on each side, scrub trees seemed eager to climb in with them. Branches scraped her doors and fenders. “Tom will not be happy if I scratch this car.”
“Honey, a man who buys a car designed for rough terrain cannot complain about a few scratches to his paint. You tell him I said so.”
“I’ll do that.”
Katharine’s eyes were having trouble adjusting to the constant switch from filtered light under trees to bright patches between them. “Did the lawyer say how far it was?”
“No, but I’d have thought we’d be there by now.” Worry puckered Dr. Flo’s brow. “You reckon we took the wrong road?”
“There wasn’t another one.”
As they rounded the next curve, Katharine slammed on the brakes. A man and a boy stood smack in the middle of the track. Each had a gun on his shoulder. Two squirrels dangled by their tails from the boy’s free hand.
Every mother thinks her child is beautiful, but this child’s mother had reason to know so. Dappled by sunlight, his skin was unblemished and lightly tanned. Thick blond hair was tucked behind his ears and fell to his shoulders. He had wide cheekbones and a rounded chin, and beneath a high forehead, his eyes were a startling blue that looked like chips of sapphire. As young as he was—fourteen or fifteen at the most—he was sensual, dressed for the woods in a long-sleeved khaki shirt, jeans, and thick boots with a sheen of sweat on his face and at the base of his neck. He had to be the Bayard boy. No wonder Miranda was goofy over him.
The other must be Dalton Bayard, Katharine concluded. He and the boy could pose for bookend shots entitled “Before and After Sixty-five Years of Dissipation.” Dalton’s hair was still thick, but it had faded from yellow to white and hung in greasy strings over his face. He had eyes of the same surprising blue, but his were bloodshot. A road map of red veins marked his nose and upper cheeks. Evidence of past meals dotted the front of his blue chambray shirt. His boots and gray work pants were muddy and stained. Several days’ stubble frosted his jaw. But his stance was arrogant as he stood challenging them to explain their presence in his hunting grounds.
When Katharine rolled down the window, the scent of his unwashed body roiled into the car. She tried not to inhale as she asked, “Do you know if there’s a cemetery down this road? We’re looking for a small family cemetery.”
Dalton peered in and narrowed his eyes. When he opened his mouth to speak, what few teeth he had left were the soft gold of rotten apple flesh, stained by coffee, tobacco, and neglect. “Why do you want to know?” His tone was malevolent.
Katharine drew back and found she didn’t want to tell him. “Just to look at it.”
He looked from one to the other, his head bobbing slightly—a snake choosing between potential victims. “Did you all come from Atlanta in answer to the ad?”
“Well, yes,” Katharine admitted.
He looked past her and locked his eyes on Dr. Flo. “You think you got
“This is a public road, right?” Dr. Flo wore a worried frown.
“I sure hope so.” When they saw a dented black mailbox next to a sandy track leading into the woods, Katharine slowed. “Could this be the road?”
“No. Mr. Curtis specifically said to turn at the twenty-miles-an-hour sign. I haven’t seen one of those. Wait—there it is. The road is just beyond it.”
“Road?” Katharine looked in vain for anything more deserving of the name than two ruts of sand centered by a strip of scruffy grass. She also was not thrilled to see another large NO TRESPASSING sign at the entrance to the track.
Dr. Flo peered into the sky. “Hey, Katharine’s daddy, it’s real good she has an SUV.”
Katharine swung the wheel and felt the back fishtail in sand. The forest grew so close on each side, scrub trees seemed eager to climb in with them. Branches scraped her doors and fenders. “Tom will not be happy if I scratch this car.”
“Honey, a man who buys a car designed for rough terrain cannot complain about a few scratches to his paint. You tell him I said so.”
“I’ll do that.”
Katharine’s eyes were having trouble adjusting to the constant switch from filtered light under trees to bright patches between them. “Did the lawyer say how far it was?”
“No, but I’d have thought we’d be there by now.” Worry puckered Dr. Flo’s brow. “You reckon we took the wrong road?”
“There wasn’t another one.”
As they rounded the next curve, Katharine slammed on the brakes. A man and a boy stood smack in the middle of the track. Each had a gun on his shoulder. Two squirrels dangled by their tails from the boy’s free hand.
Every mother thinks her child is beautiful, but this child’s mother had reason to know so. Dappled by sunlight, his skin was unblemished and lightly tanned. Thick blond hair was tucked behind his ears and fell to his shoulders. He had wide cheekbones and a rounded chin, and beneath a high forehead, his eyes were a startling blue that looked like chips of sapphire. As young as he was—fourteen or fifteen at the most—he was sensual, dressed for the woods in a long-sleeved khaki shirt, jeans, and thick boots with a sheen of sweat on his face and at the base of his neck. He had to be the Bayard boy. No wonder Miranda was goofy over him.
The other must be Dalton Bayard, Katharine concluded. He and the boy could pose for bookend shots entitled “Before and After Sixty-five Years of Dissipation.” Dalton’s hair was still thick, but it had faded from yellow to white and hung in greasy strings over his face. He had eyes of the same surprising blue, but his were bloodshot. A road map of red veins marked his nose and upper cheeks. Evidence of past meals dotted the front of his blue chambray shirt. His boots and gray work pants were muddy and stained. Several days’ stubble frosted his jaw. But his stance was arrogant as he stood challenging them to explain their presence in his hunting grounds.
When Katharine rolled down the window, the scent of his unwashed body roiled into the car. She tried not to inhale as she asked, “Do you know if there’s a cemetery down this road? We’re looking for a small family cemetery.”
Dalton peered in and narrowed his eyes. When he opened his mouth to speak, what few teeth he had left were the soft gold of rotten apple flesh, stained by coffee, tobacco, and neglect. “Why do you want to know?” His tone was malevolent.
Katharine drew back and found she didn’t want to tell him. “Just to look at it.”
He looked from one to the other, his head bobbing slightly—a snake choosing between potential victims. “Did you all come from Atlanta in answer to the ad?”
“Well, yes,” Katharine admitted.
He looked past her and locked his eyes on Dr. Flo. “You think you got
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