Tattered Legacy (A Nora Abbott Mystery) (25 page)

Epilogue

Bright sunshine toasted the
top of Nora’s head and warmed her arms. The wrens twittered along with the sparrows. Humid air rose from the damp red sand under her boots where pinpricks of green already battled their way through the flood fallout.

Nora breathed with care, making sure not to pant after the short hike up the washed-out trail. The doctor assured her the ribs were bruised and not broken, but the difference seemed negligible. She couldn’t move without pain shooting through her. Even with a black eye, a purple bruise the size of a Volkswagen on her thigh, and more sore muscles than she thought possible, she still fared better than Rachel.

Rachel leaned heavily on one crutch, her head hanging down with her thin blonde hair shielding her face. Along with her fractured ankle, Rachel sported a bandage wrapped around her forehead. She hadn’t complained much, but the doctor told Nora that Rachel’s headaches had to be epic.

Still, Rachel had insisted they come here this morning. Before them, the creek burbled on a calm and happy note. Two days ago, while Nora and Rachel had been tossed like marbles in a box down the raging flood in Castle Valley, this canyon at Moonflower had also exploded in floodwaters. The tough willows and cottonwoods survived, red silt covered the ground, and now the creek flowed in denial of the incident.

Abbey had waited out the storm in the cabin. Terrified and alone, he’d come through without a physical scratch, though Nora figured storms would always be an ordeal for him. He rested under the shade of a willow.

Rachel didn’t look up. “The last of the immigrants left this mor-
ning.”

Nora focused on a tiny yellow bud poking through the sand, amazed it fought back so quickly. “Did they get their assets returned?”

Rachel’s shoulders drooped. “Lee’s not a monster, you know.”

Nora didn’t know whether she agreed.

Rachel defended him. “Why wouldn’t Lee believe Warren’s lies? You don’t know what it’s like to be raised in isolation, where you’re told only what they want you to know. Whatever they don’t like, they label as sin and fill you with such terror of Hell, you don’t dare rebel.”

Nora said softly, “That’s what happened to you?”

A sob caught in Rachel’s throat. “Until I met Lisa. She saved me.”
They stood in silence, then Rachel continued. “I knew about Warren’s plans. I could have stopped it. But I felt loyal to my family. And I honestly didn’t think it would hurt anyone. The immigrants would wait, the space ships wouldn’t come, then everyone would go home.” More silence. “I should have known Lisa better. It’s my fault she’s gone.”

The box Nora held felt too heavy.

“But that doesn’t mean Lee was bad. He has a good heart. Warren and Darrell’s death have broken it, maybe even broken him.”

They stood in silence for several moments.

Rachel lifted her chin. “Okay. We came out here to say goodbye. We might as well do it.”

Nora set the box of ashes on the sand. She pulled the screwdriver from the back pocket of her shorts and worked at prying the lid off. Abbey stood and trotted over to stick his cold nose on her cheek.

Rachel bent over and scratched his ears and he sat back to lean on her legs.

Nora set the screwdriver down and pulled the lid off to reveal a plastic bag. “Thank you for letting me be here.”

Rachel’s throat worked before strained words came out. “I couldn’t do it alone.”

Nora closed her fingers on the plastic bag full of course gray ashes. She lifted it and stepped toward the creek.

Rachel hobbled after her and they stood together on a smooth rock on the bank at a bend in the creek. Nora slid the top of the bag open and offered it to Rachel.

Tears streamed down Rachel’s face and she shook her head. She mouthed the words “I can’t” and broke down in sobs.

Nora pictured a laughing Lisa, her vitality and passion clear on her face. She considered the creek and slowly let Lisa’s ashes sift into the running water and dissolve.

When the bag was empty, Nora wadded it up and stuffed it in her pocket. Rachel’s sobs tapered off, and her fingers tentatively brushed Nora’s hand.

Nora closed her hand on Rachel’s and they stood together, watching the creek. Finally Rachel stirred. “My ankle is hurting and I need to rest. Can you bring Lisa’s box?”

“Of course.” Nora ached to think of Rachel picking up the threads of her life alone. She’d turned her back on her upbringing and now had no family.

Rachel hobbled down the trail, leaving Nora and Abbey. A few minutes later the rumble of voices pricked their ears. Abbey’s tail wagged. If Nora had a tail, hers would be doing the same.

Footsteps on damp sand kept tempo with her heart. Nora limped a few feet from the creek toward the trail. She couldn’t stop the goofy grin she knew was spreading over her face.

Cole’s sandy hair and broad shoulders emerged from the cottonwoods along the trail. Nora was barely aware of her swollen knee and bruised hip as she shuffled toward him.

Cole squinted into the sun and searched the clearing. When he spotted her, he broke into a wide grin and jogged toward her. In mere seconds, he threw his arms around her, lifting her into the air and crushing her against him.

Pain from a hundred wounds zapped through her. She didn’t care. She clung to him with all her strength. She buried her face in the warmth of his neck and breathed in his comforting scent.

They pulled apart and he bent to pat Abbey. “Your mother told me where you were.”

“You didn’t need to come all the way out here, but I’m glad you did.”

He slid his arms around her again. “I had to make sure you’re really okay.”

“I’m sort of okay. Lots of bruises, and of course, I have major work to do if I’m going to present Canyonlands’ case to the board.”

“Of course.” He chuckled. “But first, can I buy you some lunch?”

“A girl’s gotta eat, right?” She hurried to retrieve Lisa’s box. She leaned down to heft it up when her gaze was drawn to a splash of blue showing through the sand. Her breath left her lungs and she stood motionless for several seconds.

When her heart resumed, a smile danced on her lips. She brushed the sand away. The bright blue of the sash, as well as the feathers secured in his hand, identified the fist-sized kachina as hers.

She didn’t bother looking around for who might have left the doll. She reached for the wooden figure. Energy surged through her fingers as she grasped him.

She belonged.

The End

About the Author

Shannon Baker (Flagstaff, AZ) can often be found backpacking, skiing, kayaking, cycling, or just playing lizard in the desert. From the Colorado Rockies to the Nebraska Sandhills, the peaks of Flagstaff and the deserts of Tucson, Western landscapes play an important role in her books. Visit her online at Shannon-Baker.com.

Acknowledgments

I owe a huge thanks to Laura Kamala, who inspired this story. Laura and I sat on the patio at The Eklectica Café in the bright Moab sunshine and she told me all about the film project she initiated and produced through The Grand Canyon Trust. Normally calm and serene as a mountain lake, Laura burst with passion for this project. Midway through our conversation I stopped her and asked, “Who would want to kill you for doing this?” A true mystery lover, Laura never skipped a beat. In the way of the world, nothing turned out as we planned. While I ventured off on a whole different plot line, Laura’s project was ripped from her grasp. Sadly, she didn’t get to complete the work she’d given her heart to create.

Again I must thank Jessica Morrell for trying to teach how to be a real writer. And for throwing out a grappling hook and dragging me back to the ground when I wanted to include the strange conspiracy theories surrounding Denver International Airport and the giant ant-like creatures who have ventured from the center of the planet to take over the world. I thought it worked. Jessica was right, as she usually is.

Kate Watters filled me in on some botanical details. Alan Larson and Karen Duvall are beta readers of the first order. Without the help of the Sisters of the Quill, Janet Fogg, Julie Kaewart, and Karen Lin, I probably would have quit writing and taken up needlepoint. And I hate needlepoint.

Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers has seen me through from the very beginning. There isn’t a step along this crazy writer path I’ve taken without RMFW leading the way.

The folks at Midnight Ink have taken good care of this series. I owe an enormous thanks to the best editor in the world—and that is not hyperbole—Terri Bischoff. You’ve changed my life for the better in so many ways. Thanks to Lisa Novak for another rocking cover.

To my daughters
, who constantly inspire me with their amazing accomplishments, their fearless spirits, their paralyzing wit, and their uncanny ability to always keep me accountable.

Mostly, a deep, abiding thanks to Dave. You make the sun shine warmer, the colors brighter, and keep me laughing every day.