Ride the Thunder (2 page)

A shaky, bitter laugh came from his wife. “You are good at making me look like a bitch, aren’t you, Fletcher?” she murmured. Rounding her green eyes to hold back the stinging tears, she looked at her daughter. “Go to your room, Jordanna.”

Instead the girl turned to her father and wrapped her arms around his middle to hug him tightly. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she choked on a sob. “I didn’t mean for her to get mad at you.”

“It’s all right, Jordanna.” He held her for a comforting instant then straightened the braid of her red hair so it rested along her spine. Unwinding her arms from around him, he set her firmly away. “You run along now.”

“Please don’t let her make me stay home next weekend,” she begged him. “I want to go with you.”

“I know,” he nodded and gave her a gentle shove out of the room. “Run along.”

Slow, dejected strides carried her from the room. Her obedience lasted until she reached the concealment of the hallway. There, she stopped and flattened herself to the wall to listen, wanting to hear the outcome, yet hating the bitter arguing that seemed to hurt her more than it hurt them.

“Jordanna isn’t going with you,” her mother declared. “It’s bad enough that you are taking Christopher.
He’s such a fine, sensitive boy. When are you going to realize that you can’t force him to grow up to be just like you?”

“Considering the way you have pampered him, it will be a miracle if he ever grows up. Most boys his age have already been hunting,” he argued. “I’ve waited until now because you have kept saying he was too young. Kit wants to go. Stop smothering him with your love and let him grow, Livvie.”

“Christopher doesn’t want to go. If he says he does, then it’s only because he knows it’s what you want to hear.”

“You are wrong.” He didn’t raise his voice or alter its even pitch. “Some of his friends at school have been deer-hunting and told him all about it. Kit Is excited about going.”

“He doesn’t realize that you actually expect him to kill a deer. He feels things, Fletcher. He could never kill a poor, defenseless animal in cold blood. You get a thrill out of it.”

“When are you going to stop equating hunting with murder?” he demanded.

“When you stop trying to mold my son into what you believe a man should be!” she retorted angrily. “I should have stopped you when you bought Christopher his first gun.”

“Rifle,” he corrected automatically.

“Rifle. Gun. What’s the difference? You convinced me to let him keep it. I stood by while you taught him how to use it. How you ever managed to talk me into letting Jordanna learn to shoot is something I’ll never understand. You always get your way, Fletcher. I even agreed to let you take Christopher hunting. But not Jordanna. I won’t let her go with you.”

“Both of them want to go. I want them to go. I don’t get to see them that often. If they aren’t in school, then I’m gone somewhere. I want some time for us to be a family, to share things together.”

“Then stay home! Stop traipsing all over the world!” Olivia Smith shouted in frustration. “I’m not asking
for myself anymore, but for the children. Stop this senseless hunting of yours.”

“It’s what I enjoy. There are few pleasures left to me,” he stated.

“That’s a dig at me, I suppose. Have I made your life miserable Fletcher? I hope so, because mine has been hell since I married you!”

“Liv, why do we have to argue? Why can’t we discuss this rationally?” He tiredly ran his hand over the graying hair above his ear.

“Why can’t you give up hunting?”

“You don’t know anything about hunting. You think it’s a sport of killing. It’s the thrill of the chase, Livvie. It’s pitting your skills and knowledge against another. It’s the hunt, not the kill. Come with us next weekend and find out for yourself.”

“After all these years that I’ve stayed home alone, you are finally asking me to come with you. It’s too late.” Her husky voice throbbed with emotion. “You have never been here when I’ve needed you, Fletcher. You’ve been off on some safari or in some godforsaken place where I couldn’t reach you. You have shut me out. Is it any wonder that I’ve turned to others? Yet you blame me for it. Now you expect me to go with you when you haven’t made a single concession to me.”

“What do you think this apartment is? I hate New York. This is where you want to live, not me. It isn’t a fit place to raise children, not that you give a damn. All you care about is shopping and parties and the theater.” For the first time, there was a thread of angry exasperation in his voice. “I don’t understand why you are so upset that I want to take Jordanna and Kit both with me next weekend. You would have a whole two days to spend with whomever your latest lover is!”

“What a pity I didn’t think of that!” she laughed, but it was a brittle, false sound.

“Damn you, Livvie!” He crushed her stiff shoulders in his grip as if he wanted to shake her. “You are my wife.”

She held herself rigid in his arms, not yielding to his attempted domination or his angry declaration. “I stopped loving you a long time ago, Fletcher.” Slowly, she was released as Fletcher Smith collected himself, to regard her again with his former composure. It was Olivia who turned away. “As for Jordanna, you can take her with you next weekend. A couple of days to myself just might be what I need. You’ve won, Fletcher—but then, you always do.”

“I give you my word, Livvie, that she won’t do any shooting. She’ll just tag along with Kit and me. That’s all,” he stated.

Jordanna had her answer. She was going on the hunting trip after all. But she couldn’t find any elation at the news. Tears were streaming down her face. There was a sickening lump churning about in her stomach as she slowly made her way down the hallway to her room.

The first light of dawn was beginning to filter into the Vermont woods. The air was still and quiet except for the twitter of birds in the treetops. A man, a boy, and a young girl were stationed next to a fallen tree. The man was crouched, not moving, his rifle nestled in the crook of his arm, the muzzle pointed away from the children. The boy was sitting on his knees, the barrel of his rifle resting on the dead trunk of the tree. Dressed in a brand new hunting jacket of red plaid, he watched the deer trail that wound closely past their hiding position.

The girl was sitting cross-legged on the ground, her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her parka and the collar turned up around her neck. A white wool scarf was wound around her head, covering most of her copper-red hair, and knotted at the throat. It was chilly in the dawn hours of the autumn day, but Jordanna was afraid to shiver. She was afraid to blink. Her father’s instructions had been very precise. They mustn’t move or make a single sound. He had scouted the area
before the hunting season had opened and assured them a big whitetail buck would come by this very spot.

Very carefully and quietly, Kit sat back on his heels and without turning his head, slid a questioning glance at his father. The anxiety of waiting was written on his face. Fletcher Smith gave him an encouraging smile and, with a movement of his eyes, directed his son’s attention to the trail.

Jordanna saw Kit’s eyes light up with excitement. She followed the direction of his gaze, but found nothing. She stared until her eyes hurt, then remembered her father’s admonition to keep her gaze moving. Seconds later, she saw a flicker of movement, concentrated on it, and recognized the object. It was a doe, a small, delicate-looking creature no higher than the belt buckle on her father’s pants.

Despite the carpet of dead leaves and the heavy underbrush, the doe didn’t make a sound as it walked cautiously along the trail toward them. That doe was followed by two more does and a small fawn. Jordanna barely stopped herself from breathing in sharply. Her mouth opened in awe but not a sound came out. Her dancing eyes met the glance from her father. He winked his understanding of the enchantment of the wild creatures parading past. Kit’s grin echoed her excitement. This sight alone was worth enduring the cold and the discomfort of cramped muscles.

The does disappeared up the deer trail, working their way to a higher elevation. Still, the trio maintained their silent vigil. The female deer weren’t the object of their hunt. They were waiting for the antlered head that heralded a buck. More minutes dragged by and the anxiety mounted again.

Fletcher Smith lightly rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. Where once there had been nothing but trees and brush stood a seven-point buck. Its head was turned to study the trail behind it, testing the motionless air. With a one-finger signal, Fletcher indicated for his son to wait until the deer was in closer range. Jordanna’s heart was pounding so loudly that she was sure the
deer could hear it. With a twitch of its white tail, it started forward—proud, majestic, and wary. Not even a leaf rustled beneath its hooves.

When the buck was within easy range, the hand tightened on Kit’s shoulder. Remembering the hours of practice, he took aim and squeezed the trigger. At the same moment the rifle was fired, the buck took a bounding leap toward a nearby thicket. Kit jumped up.

“I got him! I hit him, didn’t I, Dad?” His positive statement dwindled into uncertainty. The deer was nowhere in sight.

“You hit him,” his father assured him. “But you should have led him a bit more. You hit him in the stomach.”

“I was watching all the time and I didn’t see that,” Jordanna declared in amazement. “How do you know where Kit shot him?”

“By the sound of the bullet when it hit,” he explained. “It makes different sounds when it strikes different parts of the body. After a while you learn to recognize the difference.”

“Man, that was really something,” Kit declared, at least partly satisfied with the accuracy of his shooting. “It was just like the guys said in school. He was a big buck, wasn’t he, Dad?”

“He was good size, very respectable for your first,” Fletcher agreed with qualification and smiled broadly. “I wish your mother could see you now. She was so positive you wouldn’t like hunting.”

“It’s great!” His pride of accomplishment was overflowing into his excitement. “Come on, Dad. Let’s go get my deer.”

Fletcher Smith allowed himself to be hurried to the deer trail by his eager son. Jordanna lagged behind. Her father’s comment about their mother had brought back unwanted memories. With an effort, Jordanna shrugged the vague sadness aside.

A tell-tale splatter of blood marked the trail of the wounded animal. They followed it to the thicket. The sound of something thrashing in the dead brush brought
them to a halt. Fletcher pointed in the direction of the sound and the trio hurried cautiously toward it.

The whitetail buck lay in a small clearing on the other side of the thicket, unable to rise. Blood stained its hide and the ground beneath it. Its head was lifted and turned toward their approach. They all stopped at the sight of the expressive brown eyes looking at them.

“You’ll have to shoot it, Kit,” Fletcher stated. “If you leave it like that, it will take a long time for it to die.” He gave the teen-ager a gentle push toward the deer. Under the regard of those gentle brown eyes, Kit shook his head in refusal. “You have to put him out of his misery. Look at his eyes, boy. Can’t you see the forgiveness?”

Kit stared, his face whitening under the silent blessing. The rifle slipped from his hand as he turned and ran, tripping and stumbling over the twigs and underbrush. Fletcher Smith took a step after him, his hand outstretched.

“Don’t worry, Dad.” Jordanna had already reached down to pick up the rifle. As she spoke, she turned and aimed it at the fallen deer. “I’ll do it.” The trigger was squeezed and the shot rang out before he could react. “He’s dead now,” she said simply and quietly. Lifting her gaze to her father’s face, she tried to offer some comfort. “Kit didn’t understand.”

His hand seemed to be trembling as it gripped her shoulder and pulled her into his arms. He hugged her tightly for a moment, then drew a deep, shuddering breath. He smiled down at her, a flood of warmth and tenderness spilling from his eyes.

“You’ve always been my little girl, haven’t you, Jordanna?” he said.

“Always,” she agreed. There was a special closeness between them. Mutual understanding and mutual needs fulfilled.

“Do you want to help me dress out this deer?” Fletcher drew a knife from its sheath. “It would be foolish to leave it lying here.”

“Sure, I’ll help,” Jordanna agreed.

“You don’t think you’ll feel queasy? It’s alright if you do,” he added.

“No. What do you want me to do?”

Kit was sitting in the back seat of the enclosed jeep when they returned to where they had parked. Fletcher said nothing as he secured the dressed buck to the rack atop the vehicle. Along the trail, he had caught the tell-tale odor where Kit had lost his early morning breakfast. One look at his ashen face was proof enough that he wasn’t feeling much better now.

Once they were back on the main road, he glanced in the rear-view mirror to meet the haunted eyes of his son. “It’s alright, Kit. You don’t have to apologize or feel guilty for the way you behaved. It was the first time you’ve ever been exposed to anything like that. It’s bound to be something of a trauma. The next time we go hunting, it will be easier.”

“I don’t want to go hunting any more,” Kit stated flatly.

“I’m sure you feel that way now,” Fletcher agreed patiently. “But you’ll change your mind later on.”

“No, I won’t.”

Fletcher didn’t pursue the argument as he returned his attention to the traffic on the highway. Jordanna saw the dispirited light that dulled his brown eyes. She glanced over her shoulder at her brother.

“I brought your rifle, Kit. Here.” She started to hand it over the seat to him.

“You can have it, Jordanna. I don’t want it.” He turned to stare out the window at the scenery racing by.

“But it was a present,” she protested. “Dad gave it to you. You just can’t . . .” Her father’s silencing hand rested on her arm. Jordanna faced the front and he patted her arm in approval.