Escape (12 page)

Having finished eating, the woman put her dishes on a small tray by the kitchen door, waved at me, and left.

By the time I finished my protein, my toast had gone cold. Back home, I would have eaten it anyway. But I wasn’t back home, and I had time to eat something else, and, yes, toast was the healthier choice, but the pecan muffin tops on the buffet looked too good.

Indulging myself, I took one and returned to the table. I was eating slowly, enjoying the act of enjoying the taste of something rich and robust, when I sensed I was being watched. Guilt, I thought, and, sitting straighter, sucked in my stomach. But the sensation remained. I glanced up, found no one, glanced farther up—and caught my breath. Jethro Bell was staring at me. He stood at the center of a large, ornately framed painting, and though he was surrounded by family, the oils gave light to his eyes alone.

The last time I saw this painting it was hanging in Vicki Bell’s family home. Jude had commented on the power of those piercing gold eyes, which was actually quite funny, since he had the same ones. Jethro had died long before Jude was born, but it was Jude’s eyes I saw now, as fiercely independent as ever.

That stopped me short. Fiercely independent, but warm? Would I describe Jude as a warm human being? Passionate, yes. Totally, sexually hot. But did he genuinely care for people? Studying that painting, I saw passion in those gold eyes but not warmth. I didn’t see it in any of the family members portrayed here.

With one last look, I returned to my breakfast. Better Jude watching me than a goon of my dad’s, I thought, but moments later, felt the eyes again. This time they belonged to Vicki, who stood at the kitchen door, clearly pleased to see me in public. She held my gaze for a minute before approaching the table to chit-chat with her guests. I listened as I ate, marveling at how good she was at small talk. Baseball, butterflies, the weather—what might have been considered shallow in another setting was human interest here. Vicki made her guests feel at home. I suspected that Bell Valley repeaters came as much for the Red Fox as the Refuge.

After directing several new arrivals to the buffet, she hunkered down by my chair and said a private “You look better. Sleep well?”

Actually, I had not. But I didn’t want to talk about that, or about the calls I had made. Seeing Vicki now, there was only one thing to say. “I heard it,” I whispered. “Last night. A coyote.”

She looked doubtful. “You must have been dreaming.”

“I thought I was, then I woke up and heard it twice more. You didn’t hear it?” She shook her head. “I didn’t imagine it, Vicki. It was talking to me.”

“Emmie.” This, sympathetically.

“I swear it,” I insisted, because I knew what I’d heard. “There’s a coyote in the woods. I heard dogs barking in response. Ask your neighbors.”

“I will, but I know you, Emmie, you’re thinking that this is poetic. Do. Not. Go chasing it. What there
are
in those woods are bears.”

I wasn’t rushing into the woods, but that didn’t mean my thoughts didn’t. “What happened to Jude’s cottage?”

“It’s still there.”

“Is it occupied?”

“Not by any human I know,” she warned, “so if you’re thinking you want to spend a few days there communing with nature, I’d think again.” Her voice returned to a whisper. “Have you heard anything more?”

From Jude. I shook my head.

“I’m feeling guilty not warning Mom, but I can’t get her hopes up. He said he’d be here at the end of the month. So, does that mean the twenty-eighth? Twenty-ninth? Thirtieth? Typical Jude not to be specific. He’ll do what suits him.”

“Did your mom keep up the cottage for him?”

“Are you kidding? She
hated
that place. It stood for everything Jude rejected in us. Besides, it’s bad luck. Jude was the first one to live there in fifty years, and the man before him was a hermit who froze to death in the snow. So Jude lived there and disappeared.”

“He didn’t disappear in the woods.”

“You know what I mean. Please, Emmie. If you want to camp near the woods, take the gardener’s shed.”

The gardener’s shed was safe, with its awning shutters and door bolts. It housed no bears, fisher cats, or foxes, just spiders crawling over vintage lawn mowers, hoes, and hoses. There was, though, plenty of room on the dirt floor for sleeping bags. I knew this for a fact.

But ten years later, I wanted a bed. “Thanks, but I’ll stay where I am. My room has charm.”

Vicki smiled. “So does the shed. We put guests there sometimes.”

“You do not.”

“We do.”

“Then you’ve renovated that, too,” I guessed, and looked up at the painting. “Jude would be disappointed.”

“He is not in that painting,” Vicki whispered.

“His eyes are.”

“I try not to look.” She rose, leaving a hand on my shoulder. “So we’ve established that you’re not going into the woods? Good. What’ll you do today instead?”

The painting held me. There were fifteen Bells in it—eight adults and seven children—and though the family resemblance was marked, looks seemed to be the only thing tying the fifteen together. There were no laced fingers, no linked arms. I saw one hand on one shoulder, but it wasn’t warm and natural, like Vicki’s. It was formal and cold.

Cold. That described it. Gold eyes notwithstanding, this group was cold—which was so totally the opposite of what I needed in my life.

Unconditional love. In that instant, I felt a sharp craving for it, and there was one place I knew I would find it in spades.

Chapter 8
 

The charcoal SUV was there again when I left the Red Fox, but it didn’t follow me. I would have known if it had. Only one road went to the Bell Valley Refuge, a two-laner that hugged the hills, but I saw nothing in my rearview mirror during the ten-minute drive.

There was plenty to see ahead, though. With the hills on my left, on my right were June fields that held the beginnings of corn stalks, neat green rows of lettuce, and the first of the strawberry harvest. Beyond were rows of carefully cropped trees that would yield a dozen varieties of apples in September and, even farther, the spiked tops of Christmas-trees-to-be.

I eased up on the gas as I drove, everything around me saying,
Slow down
,
there’s no rush
. Traffic was nonexistent. The only vehicles I passed were pickups heading into town with lawn mowers, electrical supplies, cartons of dawn-picked strawberries destined for the General Store.

The sign marking the Refuge entrance was discreet, though the wide driveway flanked by stone columns couldn’t be missed. The nearby maples had grown taller and wider in the years since I had been here last, but otherwise it was exactly the same. I parked in the lot adjacent to a Colonial that had been built in the style of the houses
in town. It held the administrative offices of the Refuge, as well as the visitors center.

I had barely opened the car door when I smelled horse and hay, bringing warm memories to chase away the last of the Bell portrait chill. Amazing, really, that this shelter, which exuded heart, could have been created by a cold man. Of course, I’m jumping to conclusions. I hadn’t known Jethro Bell. I’m not even sure why I had such a negative reaction to him now. A painting was only as honest as the artist, and I knew nothing about this one.

But I did know the Refuge. And it knew me, I realized with a start. I had been here nearly every day for three months, and not with Jude. He liked his animals wild—as in dangerously feral, which was why he lived deep in the woods—and though he guided major benefactors through the Refuge, it was more for the sake of money than interest. His charisma got them every time, and, of course, if there was a woman in the group, he poured it on. Though Amelia considered this to be productive management, for Jude it was pure ego. Given a choice, he would be in Amelia’s office lobbying for policy issues that appealed to him, like how large a team to send to the latest global disaster.

No, that summer I had come out here alone. I was guessing the personnel hadn’t changed much, which meant I might be recognized, and I wasn’t eager for that.

But this was where I needed to be. So I put on my hat, pulled my hair through the back, and, dragging in that familiar horse-and-hay scent to ease my unease, left the car.

The receptionist did look familiar. But she was in her early twenties, too young for me to have worked with back then, and she looked like Vicki, a Bell cousin, hence the familiarity.

I signed in as Em Aulenbach, not the Emily Scott I had been ten years before. There was a form to fill out, with boxes to check and signatures releasing the Refuge from responsibility should I be bitten by an animal. This was new and good, I supposed. Fear of litigation was a fact of modern life.

The girl was working her iPhone and didn’t look up when I set off. The lawyer in me—perhaps the part of me that felt protective of this place—wanted to remind her of another fact of modern life. Bad guys. For all she knew, I was a crazy woman wanting to run from cage to cage setting animals free.

But Bell Valley was a trusting place. I had locked my car here out of habit; you didn’t leave things unlocked in New York. But this young woman was used to people who cared. She was spoiled. Complacent, perhaps—like me, building the life I was running from now.

Actually, that was wrong. I had never been complacent. I was driven.

But it was forgotten the minute I went out the back door and entered the heart of the Refuge. Like the smell of horse and hay, there was nothing stressful here. The only sounds were leisurely—barks, clucks, the occasional whinny or bray. The humans I saw were walking alone or in twos, without pressure or rush.

The Refuge was a warren of bungalows, each built of wood from local trees. The history of the place could be told by the weathering of that wood, with the lighter, newer structures proof of the Refuge’s expanding mission. I passed the weather vane of lopsided signs pointing every which way for barn, pasture, dogs, rabbits, or cats. But here, at least, I knew where I was going.

Kitty City had grown since I’d been here last, with several new wings and a screened-in playground at the back. With the roof screened as well, cats could bask in the sun yet be safe from predators—yes, like coyotes, which do go for small pets, though strictly for survival, Jude always said. They generally avoided civilization as long as there was prey enough in the woods.

Entering Kitty City now, I felt a wave of nostalgia. The reception area was small, with one cat curled on the desk chair, another in the wire in-box, another atop the file cabinet, sitting straight, staring at me. That one was missing a front leg. I guessed that the two others had disabilities as well. That they looked healthy and content was a tribute to the care they received.

“Hi, there,” said a stocky woman, coming in from a side room. “I hope you’re here to work. We’re in need.”

“So am I,” I said. “Where first?”

She gestured me through another door. “To the end of the hall, then right. That’s the Rescue Center. They blame the economy for making people drive miles from home to abandon pets on the roadside, but these cats can’t survive on their own. They’re brought in here maimed and malnourished. A few of the ones that are here now were rescued from a house where authorities found twenty-two dead cats. Can you imagine? The ones that survived need patience and love. I’m Katherine, by the way. I used to be Kat, but that didn’t …”
work here for obvious reasons
, I finished silently as she spoke the words. It was her stock line, used ten years ago, too. Some things never changed. That was actually refreshing.

“You look familiar,” she said, studying my face.

“I was here a while back,” I remarked offhandedly.

She nodded, seeming satisfied, as we reached the end of the hall. “You remember the drill.”

“I do.”

“Are you okay here by yourself?”

“I am.” I preferred it, actually. I hadn’t come here for people.

Opening the door only enough to slip through, I closed it before any cats could escape. As it happened, the precaution was unnecessary. There was no rushing to greet me; these cats had seen the worst of humanity, and I was not to be trusted. Cats were discriminatory that way. They didn’t go to just anyone.

I felt eyes studying me, but there was no mystery to it here. Cats were everywhere—on walkways, under chairs, inside boxes deliberately left for those needing to hide. Large pet crates sat in a clump, their doors open, fleece beds and old blankets holding cats at every tier. I saw a small tiger with a scab on its shoulder, above it a dun tabby with vulnerable eyes, and, below, a furry gray creature that was badly in need of a brushing.

Instinctively soothing, I cooed, “Hello, you’re so sweet, ooooh look at you, pretty thing, come say hi, I won’t hurt,” and still there was no movement. I heard the occasional soft meow, though couldn’t figure out which had spoken. Cats of all sizes and shapes were statuestill, watching me with a wariness that broke my heart. I had my work cut out for me.

Energized, I took supplies from the closet. Talking softly all the while, I cleaned litter boxes, refilled food bowls, freshened water. I mopped the floor, careful not to sweep the yarn mop too close to any cat, and, even then, a few scattered from its reach. By the time I was done, though, others had begun to approach. Holding a handful of treats, I sat on the floor in the middle of the room. One cat approached guardedly, sniffed, jerked back. Apparently liking what it sniffed, it came forward again and cautiously, cautiously, took the treat from my hand with the faintest whisper of a tiny wet nose. A second cat followed, then a third. Gradually the meows grew more confident.