From The Mists Of Wolf Creek - Rebecca Brandewyne

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And I don’t mind telling you, it’s been a long, hard path to follow, child. But in the end, I reckon it’s a journey that’s been the making of me, and I’m too old to change now, besides.”

      “Don’t you believe in God and the Devil then, Gram?”

      “Of course, I do, Hallie. It’s merely that I’ve never noticed that either one has ever been of much use to humankind. Why, most of the wars in this old world have been fought in God’s name, and if the Devil hadn’t got into people, making them do evil to one another, I don’t know what has.

      “Sometimes, it seems like there’s not a lick of common sense or kindness or caring left on this entire earth! We were put here to take care of this planet and the creatures on it, you know, and it seems to me that between God and the Devil, we’ve done a mighty damned poor job of it all.

      “No, child—” Gram had shaken her head firmly to emphasize her point “—I rely on myself, and what I know to be right and wrong according to the dictates of my own conscience, to lead my life, and I leave God and the Devil to those who need them. I hope that one day, you’ll understand that and do the same.”

      Standing there with Gram in the yard that summer’s day, Hallie had not truly comprehended a single word of their conversation. But now, the full meaning of their dialogue dawned on her, and in that moment she grasped her grandmother’s character with far more clarity than she could ever have done in her childhood.

      “Gram—” Hallie spoke now, her words breaking the stillness inside the car “—I don’t know why you ever sent me away after Mom died. But I know you must have had a good reason, one you thought was right, just as you must have had one equally as good for bringing me home again. And while I’m not sure I’ve made up my mind yet about God and the Devil, I do have faith and trust in you.

      “So…here I am, Gram, home at last after all these long years. I wish…I really wish you were here, too, standing on the front porch to greet me, the way you used to when you heard the school bus drop me off at the bottom of the hill. Instead, you’re dead and buried in your grave, and I’ve got to rely on myself, just as you did.

      “Oh, I guess I’ll manage somehow. You see, I know how to stand on my own two good feet, too, Gram. Still, I’ve got to tell you that sometimes, like this evening, that’s pretty damned cold comfort. What I wouldn’t give for a cup of your hot Earl Grey tea, served with your smile and words of wisdom, right about now. Maybe if I’m lucky, there’ll still be a tin, at least, somewhere on one of your kitchen shelves. I can only hope.”

      With that last thought to sustain her, Hallie put the gearshift back into Drive and guided the vehicle on toward the old farmhouse that stood waiting silently for her, a momentous sentinel in the rainy darkness, relentlessly defiant against the blustering wind—and armed with needles that still dared to jab the thunderous sky.

      Chapter 3

      Home Is Where the Heart Is

      By the time Hallie pulled the car to a stop beneath the intricate wooden carport on one side of the house, the wind was lashing the trees unmercifully, the rain was pouring down and the fleeting dusk had well and truly died.

      She was inordinately grateful for what protection, however small, the carport provided as, with difficulty born of the storm, she lifted the vehicle’s rear hatch and unloaded the two bags she had packed to bring with her. Then she fumbled in her purse for the house keys Gram’s attorney, Simon Winthorpe, had mailed to her some days ago.

      Once she had finally got the side door open and stepped into the small vestibule beyond, she felt for the light switch on the wall. But much to Hallie’s consternation, when she flicked it, nothing happened. Either the electric company had not received her instructions to restore the power, or else the storm had knocked the power out. Either way, she was obviously not going to be able to get the lights to come on.

      Wondering what else might go wrong this seemingly ill-omened night, she set her luggage inside, then returned to the car to fetch the flashlight from the emergency roadside kit she always carried in the cargo space. Punching one of the buttons on the key remote, she locked the car, then ran back into the house, closing the door behind her, shutting out the inhospitable elements.

      For a moment, Hallie just stood there in the darkness, dripping with rain and shivering with cold. She correctly suspected that the outside temperature had dropped twenty degrees or more in the last few hours, and she was dressed for summer, not for the onslaught of a storm and its attendant chilliness.

      But finally, collecting herself, she switched on the flashlight and began to explore the house. Once or twice, she tested other light switches, only to receive the same disappointing result as before. She had hoped the lightbulb in the vestibule was simply burned out, but now, it was clear to her the power itself was indeed off.

      As she proceeded down the hall beyond the vestibule and then through several of the rooms on the ground floor of the house, shining the flashlight this way and that, Hallie was swept with myriad emotions.

      Much to her vast relief, in so many ways that she now realized had subconsciously been of prime importance to her, the old farmhouse had not changed. In rooms that had clearly been redone over the years, Gram had chosen the very same patterns that had always papered the walls, and she had reupholstered the furniture with fabric identical to the worn material it had replaced. She had moved little or nothing in the intervening years. Sofas, chairs, curio cabinets, and tables still stood where they always had, and paintings still hung in their accustomed places.

      The large portrait of Hallie’s mother, Rowan—forever young and beautiful—still looked down at her from its place of honor above the intricately carved fireplace mantel in the front parlor.

      On the much simpler fireplace mantel in the back parlor, Gram’s treasured collection of antique Victorian oil lamps were still clustered, along with the sharp, ornate brass scissors she had used to trim the flat wicks, and the beautiful, matching brass box that housed the stick matches she had employed to light them.

      Now, as in her childhood she had watched her grandmother do so many times before, Hallie crossed the room to remove the oil lamps’ glass chimneys, carefully trim the wicks and set them ablaze. Soon the back parlor was awash with the warm glow of their flames and with the fragrant scents of the oils that filled the glass fonts. Sweet lavender and vanilla mingled with the pungent smell of the beeswax with which her grandmother had always polished the furniture.

      Standing there in the room, closing her eyes and inhaling the old, familiar aromas, Hallie could almost imagine she was a child again, that any minute now Gram herself would come into the back parlor, wiping her hardworking hands on the apron she had always tied on over her simple workaday garments.

      But, no, Hallie would never see her grandmother again in this life.

      At the thought, hot tears stung her eyes, and almost, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in coming back here to Meadowsweet.

      It was said that one could never go home again.

      Sighing heavily, fighting back the flood of tears that threatened once more to fall, Hallie abruptly switched off her flashlight. Then, picking up one of the oil lamps, she made her way to the kitchen.

      There, she drew up short, stunned and incredulous.

      For here, at last, everything was changed.

      Once, solid-oak cupboards, turned dark with smoke and age, had lined the walls, one of which cabinets had sported an ancient copper sink, and open shelves cluttered with crockery had hung above. There had been a large, worn butcher block in the middle of the room, and a badly scarred yellow pine floor. The open hearth to one side had been composed of reddish brown bricks blackened with soot from winter fires.

      The kitchen was the one part of the house Hallie remembered much more vividly than all the rest. It had always reminded her of the old cozy but mysterious kitchen in some fairy-tale cottage, and sometimes, she had half suspected Gram herself was really some enchanting witch.

      But

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