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I paced the room a long while, then busied myself in the kitchen, washing the dishes, straightening the area, preparing for tomorrow’s meal. Finally, there was nothing left for me to do, but wait for Bryant’s return.
Shedding my clothes down to my chemise, I wrapped the quilt around my body, then sat in the fireplace chair. After the long day, I was bone tired and would have gratefully crawled into bed, but with Bryant gone there was no way I dared close my eyes. Just as well, since I would need to lift the plank to let him inside when he returned.
There’s a term called “deafening silence”, and I had on several occasions experienced it. Deep in the bowels of the cave had been one. Sitting there alone in this one-room cabin out in the middle of nowhere was another.
Yet even that was a deceptive description, because there were always sounds, terrifying ones. The cave breathed echoing moans. In the forest, wind hauntingly whistled through the pine trees, their branches creaking and cracking. Nocturnal wildlife brushed and fluttered and made their own warning calls. Even here inside the cabin the snap, crackle and pop of the fireplace embers and the flames sizzling off the aromatic pine resin made me nervously jump.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Misty cold seeped inside the cabin. I added sticks of split wood onto the fire, stoking the popping, flying embers, then resumed my wakeful post upright in the chair.
Another hour passed, and still Bryant hadn’t returned.
It was silly to worry about his welfare, of course. He was a nineteenth century woodsman who knew these mountains well. He could take care of himself just fine.
Even if he ran into any Arcan thugs, he had the cover of night to hide from them in the black forest.
No worries, then. I just had to wait.
He would return.
No worries.
Glancing at the door again and again, I listened, watched, waited for Bryant. I wasn’t a regular television viewer, but it would have been nice to have the mindless distraction of some irreverent late-night comedian who was still hanging onto what was left of his SNL audience. Or an overdramatic black-and-white flick with the Hollywood ingénue breaking into song over the loss of her love shot down over World War II France. Or the drone of an infomercial host demonstrating the miraculous disappearance of grease spots off a carpet with their amazing product that was now on sale for the next twenty-four hours only.
My eyes blinked hard and slow again and again. Running a hand down my face to wake myself more, I focused on the low crackling fire, but the wavy, hypnotic orange and yellow flames only served to relax my mind and muscles more, tempting my eyes to drift off into that peaceful slumber.
The nervous whicker and snorting of the horses outside startled me to full attention.
Someone was out there in the stable!
Bryant?
I jumped up and stumbled awkwardly to the kitchen window. Unlatching the shudders, I cracked one side open for a small peek. A useless endeavor since it was pitch black outside with only the full moon throwing gray shadows onto the trees and creek.
The horses grew more agitated and increased their protests.
It couldn’t be Bryant. They would have recognized him.
Arcan Hunters?
If so, what should I do?
There was another problem though. I might be secure enough myself inside this barricaded cabin, but what about Bryant? He was out there somewhere, unprotected. Those thugs already shot him once with a poison-laced bullet. What if this time they caught him unawares and properly finished the job?
No choice then.
Utter lunacy, too.
Trying not to talk myself out of my next act, I snatched up the Colt .45 revolver from the fireplace mantle, slipped on one of Bryant’s overlarge buckskin shirts that hit me above the thigh, then lifted the thick wood plank barring the door.
Taking cautious steps in my stocking feet and gripping the gun with both hands, I headed outside and around the cabin towards the stamping, nickering horses.
I started to call out for Bryant, then instantly shut my mouth. If he was out there, all well and good. If it was someone else though...
My gray speckled mare snorted and twitched at my approach. I soothingly shushed her like a dream-frightened child, gently patting her haunches with my left hand while keeping a firm grip on the gun with my right. The blasted thing was shaking so profusely that I doubted I could fire it should the need arise.
