Wilde's Meadow (Darkness Falls #3) (17 page)

“Why though?”

He shrugs. “Balance? I am not positive, but she always has her reasons.
How
is the bigger question.”

How is right. Not only did Mom know time was suspended here, I’m going to guess she’s the one who froze all these innocent people and animals where they stand. Maybe next time she’ll wait until the middle of the night so I don’t have to drive like a maniac up the shoulder, and I can’t even wrap my thoughts around why my Jeep runs, or why we’re not frozen, or—well, none of this makes sense.

I take the exit for Route 250, and we wind along the road between the horse farms in silence. Black and white estate fencing, hundreds and hundreds of acres of rolling green pastures, hazy, tree-covered mountains set against a bright-blue sky full of wispy white clouds—I take a deep breath, but home doesn’t have quite the same relaxing pull on me. Not while the world is paused.

Our black mailbox, battered and dented from bored teenagers and their baseball bats, appears along the edge of the narrow, two-lane road. My heart hammers against my chest, and sweat moistens my grip on the steering wheel. I make the left turn into our driveway, rocks crunching under the tires, then ride up to my parking spot.

The house looks the same—light yellow siding, white trim, big wraparound front porch— but there’s no life. The barn is silent, and there are no employees milling about the property, working with the animals, or delivering supplies.

On a normal day, birds would be singing high above our heads, horses would nicker in the fields, chickens would cluck and roosters crow, goats would make their goatly noises and be plotting their world domination … or how to eat the world.

To them there probably isn’t a difference.

“Is this where you spent your childhood?” Muriel asks, sounding wistful, breathless.

“Yes.”

To Arland and the girl, my home probably looks like a mansion, but we aren’t rich by any modern standards. We’re farmers. A dying breed amongst Americans. Most of the properties surrounding us have a For Sale sign posted at the end of the drive, preparing for developers to move in and do what they do best: tear down and rebuild.

“Your home is similar to lands around The Meadows, Kate. I have no doubt your mother picked this place because of that similarity.”

“Maybe she didn’t pick it at all. Maybe the portal put her right where she and my dad needed to be. Just like the portals knew where we needed to go.”

“I love it,” Muriel says, eyes big and round. “Can we get out and see more?”

She barely gives me time to open the door and climb out before she barrels over the front seat then jumps onto the gravel next to me. The determination and maturity of the soldier who Muriel is inside Encardia has left. She’s nothing but a little girl again, spinning with her arms wide at her sides, smiling up at the sun.

“Can we leave her here?” I ask Arland, fighting back a laugh.

“Who would care for her? Are we not here to take back the only people you trust?” Wrapping his arms around me, Arland rests his chin on my head. “But you are correct, she is incredibly happy here. Maybe we can find a way. If she can survive the cruelness in our world, she can survive here. Muriel can tend the animals … .”

She stops her carefree twirls then runs up to us. “Animals?”

I unravel from Arland’s embrace then take her by the hand, leading her toward the barn. If I’m going to find Gary, that’s probably the best place to start. Mom said he would be under the impression they were getting a divorce; I’m positive he would have come out here to relieve his stress.

“Gary?” I call.

Arland chuckles. “Do you believe he will answer you? I am sure he is frozen along with everyone and everything else.”

I shrug. “It was worth a shot.”

Muriel tugs her hand free and wanders around the barn, oohing and aahing at everything. The quiet stalls will keep her busy. Even if she finds an animal, I can’t imagine the meeting being all that exciting.

“What makes you think your stepfather is out here?” Arland asks, opening the door to the tack room. “Not in there.”

“The time on my Jeep. If it’s really 10:00 a.m., then I know he’s out here somewhere.” I check the first stall on the left. Not clean yet. “I figure when my mom left, Gary was too depressed and sent away all the workers. That’s why no one is here. But the horses, the hard work, all of that calms him.”

Arland peeks into the other two stalls on the right, while I inspect the ones on the left. Nothing.

“You two have a lot in common, then,” he says.

I walk into the alley of the barn and push through the double doors leading to the back arenas. Gary is riding atop the horse he gave me before we left—well, he was riding, before Mom did whatever she did to them.

My face flushes. She left him, and he came out here to train
my
horse.

“Kate?” Arland shakes my shoulder. “Is that him?”

I nod; it’s all I can manage. Maybe Gary loves me more than I thought. Maybe he loves my mother more than I thought. I don’t want to take him to Encardia where I know he’ll likely die. He can watch over Muriel, here, and be happy.

Arland walks over to the split-wood fence, then steps on the bottom rail. “That is a fine horse.”

Finding my confidence again, I join him, but rather than stand on the fence, I open the gate and walk up to Gary. “They are our passion, our life. Everything else is just for food, but we train and breed the horses.”

He appears gray and tired, yet very much alive. His chest expands and contracts with each breath he takes. Gary blinks, but his brown eyes remain still, focused on the ground in front of my unnamed Paint.

I touch the horse. She, too, is breathing, warm. “Arland, come here.”

How will we break them of whatever spell they’re under? How long have they been like this? Close to two months have passed since Mom and Brit came to Encardia. There is no way anything can live that long without food or water.

“But time is standing still, Kate.” Arland runs his hand along my animal’s neck, down to her shoulder. “They will not starve because not a day has passed since your mother and sister left.”

“Okay, thought-snatcher. How will we free them?” I ask, propping my hands on my hips. “The whole world—minus things
we
need—seems to be paused.”

Arland pats his chest, right over his heart. “The other letter.”

“Right. Why didn’t you say that before?”

“Just thought of it.” He winks, then stares at the barn. “Muriel enjoys it here.”

Turning around, I laugh. Hard. Muriel is sitting in the hayloft, swinging her legs over the edge of the barn. She has a piece of straw in her mouth and more stuck in her hair. Clearly she’s been rolling around up there. I used to when I was younger.

“The view is gorgeous,” she calls.

I dig the letters out of the container then find the second one, the one I wasn’t allowed to read until we arrived here. Mom’s handwriting is drawn around the rounded edges, and a folded up square of parchment rests in the middle. The whole thing looks like intricate origami, nothing I’ve ever seen Mom create. “A decision must be made; one that involves leaving someone else behind. Although, this decision should be easy. Make your choice, make the arrangements, and when all is complete, one-by-one unfold each piece of paper in the center of this letter and then read it aloud.”

Arland and I look up to Muriel again. She smiles and waves, nearly falling from the second story of the red barn.

“She’s just a child, Arland. Look at her. The tough girl act is over. We can’t leave Muriel by herself, not if the world is frozen, and especially not if the world
isn’t
frozen. What will happen when men show up here to work the fields and deliver supplies? Men who will surely discover she’s alone!” I clutch the letters in my fist. These stupid cryptic clues are, well, stupid.

“Give her time. Her excitement will wear off. Muriel is well-equipped to care for herself. Maybe the time alone here will give her time to deal with her grief—”

“Or wallow in it.”

Grabbing my arms, Arland pulls me into him. “Shall we sleep on it? We can make our decision in the morning … the real morning.”

Everything in my body tenses. So many people are counting on us to come back and lead them in war, and Arland wants to sleep? “We can’t just leave everyone.”

“We have been gone for less than two days. Flanna and Vanora will not be able to convince Bheagans for maybe another week. Mharans and Gaothans will be especially difficult for Perth, Rhoswen, Brit, and Tristan. One night with regular food, sleeping in a regular bed, and enjoying regular bhean chéile and fear céile activities will not kill us.”

A flash of my bed and us in it passes through my mind, as does guilt. “That doesn’t feel wrong to you?”

“Can you answer a question for me?”

I nod.

“Should we leave Muriel here or take her with us?”

Backing away, I stare at his green eyes. Sometimes answers aren’t always black and white; sometimes not evaluating the gray areas means people lose their life. Muriel will be safe from the war here, but there are dangers in this world, dangers with the same result: death. “I don’t know.”

A faint smile cracks one side of his face, but I know Arland wants to grin ear to ear.

Part of me wants that, too.

“Then we stay. One night. We will eat, relax, and think about the decision we have to make.”

“One night?”

“For Muriel.” Taking me by the hand, Arland leads me through the alley doors, back into the barn.

We collect Muriel, then head for the house.

I can do one night with Arland, but will it be enough?

Chapter Thirteen

“You have to make sure the stove lights,” I say, showing Muriel how to use the gas range. “If you leave this on for too long without igniting the flames, the house will explode.”

“Explode? The magic here may be greater than that of the magic in Encardia.” She sighs, then turns the black dial.

The electric starter clicks over and over, then a flame poofs on the range.

“Now, turn the knob to the heat setting. They are numbered. We’ll start with five because it’s a medium heat.”

Muriel does as instructed, then places the large pot of water on the grate. “I can handle it from here. I have helped Flanna in the kitchen many times.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Go take your bath or shower or whatever it is you said you wanted to do,” she says, pushing me toward the stairs. “You have taken care of people long enough. A night to be normal will not hurt you.”

Arland laughs. “Good luck convincing her, Muriel.”

I scowl at him and his smug look. “You can lean against that table and be cute all you like, but none of this makes me feel very good. This seems too easy. Sunshine, food, showers, decisions … .”

His humor fades, his expression falling. “Do you mean unfair? Everyone else is in some difficult place, trying to convince former enemies to join our efforts, and we are here, in a world that no longer has time, trying to figure out how to fix it?”

I turn around and stomp up the stairs. Their efforts to make me feel better aren’t working, but they both have valid points. Earth is still. For some reason, the decision about Muriel’s future home is important enough that Mom made it a requirement to decide
before
I can read the second letter.

The stairs squeak. Arland is following me, but I run into the bathroom and lock the door. He’s so eager to love me, and I want him—I really,
really
want him—but something about this all scares me. Enjoying ourselves. Leaving Muriel here. Everyone else out in dark, horrible worlds … .

“I love the scenes of your childhood hanging in the hall,” Arland calls. “What game is played with a white and black ball?”

I push aside the purple shower curtain and turn on the faucet. “Soccer. I only played for a couple years before I got bored.”

“Did you wish to play and then decide you did not like it?” His voice is quiet, contemplative.

“Gary said I should try everything. I think he wanted me to have a different life, one not involved with the horses. But he realized pretty quickly that I wanted to farm.” Stepping inside the cold claw-footed tub, I pull the water diverter. Hot water bursts from the showerhead, washing away the filth from my face, and sliding down to my toes. Too much time has passed since I’ve showered. Chills break out along my skin. This feels so good.

The smell of my shampoo is surreal. My hair actually feels silky smooth. The baths with Arland are wonderful, but—who am I kidding? Baths with him are better than anything. Listening to his heart, being so close to him, our skin touching … .

Grabbing my towel from the rack on the wall, I step out, wrap up and go to the door.

I open it and find Arland standing there with a big, beautiful smile, eyes roaming up and down. “Feel better now?”

“No.” I take him by the arm and tug him into the bathroom with me, gently kicking the door closed. “Take off your clothes.”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“You did not say please.”