Read Online The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) by Sarah Wathen - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Wathen
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Helen asked.
Charlotte’s sullen lips puckered around a stream of cigarette smoke, the cloud billowing into Helen’s face and stinging both her eyes and her pride. Not sure how to react, she nodded to her with patient generosity and kept moving. When she reached the summit of the steep stairway, and re-emerged into Buffalo Square, she was confronted with the backside of that ridiculous statue of the generic Brave. She wondered how Michael and his grandfather reacted when they met him that night. Embarrassed, she shook her head and resolved to put petty squabbles, ancient and modern, out of her mind for the rest of the night.
Helen inhaled deeply, winded from the steep climb out of the Big Joe’s compound, but instead of catching her breath, she nearly choked on the thick, humid air of the enclosed square. Cicadas droned inside the heavy ring of trees, their rhythmic strumming adding weight to the muggy darkness. Instead of plunging through that oppressive soup, she decided to take the Riverwalk home, and backtracked a little along the crest of the hill, towards the water. A well-worn footpath led through the trees, and down to an iron gate, opening onto the blessedly fresh air of the wide, quick running, Tenakho River. The river thundered down from a deep cleft between the Eastern and Western Mountain ridges to the north, spraying violent rapids over the rocky riverbed alongside Shirley’s town center, before hurtling around the peninsular landmass on which Buffalo Square was built.
Helen’s family estate sat atop the highest crag, overlooking a quick hairpin: the most violent part of the river’s eastward turn before barreling back down through the south valley. In colonial times the towering structure provided the perfect vantage point for a warring clan to monitor both the lower valley and the opposite shoreline. The river itself had never threatened invaders. It was unnavigable to any but the most avid rafting fanatics in the modern day extreme whitewater rapids world, and even then, only during the calm season. When the Collins family had first settled there, centuries ago, attempts to run the river had always ended in tragedy. Every once in a while, Helen would see a rafting expedition rage past, but mostly the river simply provided a beautiful view from her upper rooms, which she employed as a library and shared with her daughter as a painting studio when she was in town. The Riverwalk provided a pleasant upwards stroll, through the rear family gardens, towards home. Helen chose that path, more and more in her advancing years, instead of the steep climb up endless stairs to the front entrance that faced Buffalo Square.
“A walk along the river is so much more refreshing,” she said to herself, tilting her face into the moonlight and the crisp spray on the wind. She smiled, unsurprised to see another little ember glow brighter at the edge of the river, away from the light of the street lamps. “Good evening, Mr. Castle.”
The disembodied cigarette flew upwards as he flicked it into the river and stood to greet her. He moved into the light and nodded respectfully as she passed. Sam Castle had a rough look about him but he had the best manners of any student Helen could remember in her long years of teaching. “Good evening, Ms. Collins.”
“I trust you have adequate transportation home?” she asked without breaking her stride, knowing he would deny that he did not, yet she felt compelled to extend the offer.
“Yes, I do,” he lied and cleared his throat.
“Take care of yourself, son.”
“I will.”
Helen continued towards home, hoping her butler Desmond would be there to greet her in that cavernous, empty place.
chapter eight
Sam watched her disappear and checked his watch. Time to move.
He headed away from the river and towards the foothills, where the train tracks snaked through the valley, hugging the bends and crags. Not for the tiny population of Shirley, but more for the erratic path
Charlotte’s sullen lips puckered around a stream of cigarette smoke, the cloud billowing into Helen’s face and stinging both her eyes and her pride. Not sure how to react, she nodded to her with patient generosity and kept moving. When she reached the summit of the steep stairway, and re-emerged into Buffalo Square, she was confronted with the backside of that ridiculous statue of the generic Brave. She wondered how Michael and his grandfather reacted when they met him that night. Embarrassed, she shook her head and resolved to put petty squabbles, ancient and modern, out of her mind for the rest of the night.
Helen inhaled deeply, winded from the steep climb out of the Big Joe’s compound, but instead of catching her breath, she nearly choked on the thick, humid air of the enclosed square. Cicadas droned inside the heavy ring of trees, their rhythmic strumming adding weight to the muggy darkness. Instead of plunging through that oppressive soup, she decided to take the Riverwalk home, and backtracked a little along the crest of the hill, towards the water. A well-worn footpath led through the trees, and down to an iron gate, opening onto the blessedly fresh air of the wide, quick running, Tenakho River. The river thundered down from a deep cleft between the Eastern and Western Mountain ridges to the north, spraying violent rapids over the rocky riverbed alongside Shirley’s town center, before hurtling around the peninsular landmass on which Buffalo Square was built.
Helen’s family estate sat atop the highest crag, overlooking a quick hairpin: the most violent part of the river’s eastward turn before barreling back down through the south valley. In colonial times the towering structure provided the perfect vantage point for a warring clan to monitor both the lower valley and the opposite shoreline. The river itself had never threatened invaders. It was unnavigable to any but the most avid rafting fanatics in the modern day extreme whitewater rapids world, and even then, only during the calm season. When the Collins family had first settled there, centuries ago, attempts to run the river had always ended in tragedy. Every once in a while, Helen would see a rafting expedition rage past, but mostly the river simply provided a beautiful view from her upper rooms, which she employed as a library and shared with her daughter as a painting studio when she was in town. The Riverwalk provided a pleasant upwards stroll, through the rear family gardens, towards home. Helen chose that path, more and more in her advancing years, instead of the steep climb up endless stairs to the front entrance that faced Buffalo Square.
“A walk along the river is so much more refreshing,” she said to herself, tilting her face into the moonlight and the crisp spray on the wind. She smiled, unsurprised to see another little ember glow brighter at the edge of the river, away from the light of the street lamps. “Good evening, Mr. Castle.”
The disembodied cigarette flew upwards as he flicked it into the river and stood to greet her. He moved into the light and nodded respectfully as she passed. Sam Castle had a rough look about him but he had the best manners of any student Helen could remember in her long years of teaching. “Good evening, Ms. Collins.”
“I trust you have adequate transportation home?” she asked without breaking her stride, knowing he would deny that he did not, yet she felt compelled to extend the offer.
“Yes, I do,” he lied and cleared his throat.
“Take care of yourself, son.”
“I will.”
Helen continued towards home, hoping her butler Desmond would be there to greet her in that cavernous, empty place.
chapter eight
Sam watched her disappear and checked his watch. Time to move.
He headed away from the river and towards the foothills, where the train tracks snaked through the valley, hugging the bends and crags. Not for the tiny population of Shirley, but more for the erratic path
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