You Can Run... (6 page)

“I can guarantee I’ll return the car, sir, but I can’t guarantee I’ll find Willow.”

“But you’ll do your best,” Simon said earnestly. “That’s all anyone can do.”

Smoke. Burned wood. Wet ground.

Willow Conley kept her eyes tightly shut. She didn’t have to see, but she did have to breathe. She tried taking only little breaths, keeping the smells out of her nose, but they were all around her, too much for her to conquer.

She sighed and scooted closer to a big tree trunk—a tree far back in the woods where she wasn’t allowed to go. The tree limbs above her had begun to sway in the wind, and the leaves whispered to one another. Willow didn’t usually pay any attention to leaves blowing, but tonight their murmurs added to her fright. She pulled up her knees and tried to bury her face in the clean smell of her pink cotton pajama legs, but scrunching up made the right side of her tummy hurt. Besides, her pink pajamas were dirty and they didn’t smell clean and fresh anymore, not like they had when Mommy had put them on her. . . .

How long ago? Minutes? Hours? Willow knew only it was still night. Up high, the moon and the stars looked cool and peaceful, just like they had when she’d climbed out her window. If she stared only at them, she could pretend nothing bad had happened. But if she looked at the ugly place where her and Mommy’s house had been . . .

Willow cringed and shut her eyes tight. Still, behind her eyelids danced the red and yellow flames, the pieces of burning wood shooting in all directions, poor Mommy flying off the bottom step of the porch and landing in the swimming pool. . . .

The pool that could not keep her safe from the fire that swept over her limp body, chewed at her hair, and danced on her face. Mommy’s beautiful, laughing face—a face that Willow somehow knew would never laugh again.

Pain jabbed at Willow’s chest—a pain that had nothing to do with her operation. Her heart must have broken, she decided, holding her breath as the pain stabbed again. She wondered how long it took a broken heart to stop hurting. Probably forever and ever.

Earlier, when the fire had captured Mommy, Willow had taken a couple of steps back into the woods. Shortly afterward, sirens wailed and swirling red and blue lights slashed the night. Then Willow had heard men yelling before huge arcs of water fell on the blazing house. The fire, the lights, the miniature waterfalls should all have been dazzling and
exciting in the quiet of the night—like fireworks on the Fourth of July—but Willow had found none of it either dazzling or exciting. This wasn’t the Fourth of July, and she knew all the color and the noise meant disaster.

Finally the flames got smaller and smaller until they were gone, leaving behind smoke and sharp smells. She’d seen people bending over her mother lying in the pool. They shook their heads. Then carefully, oh so carefully, they had lifted her, put her on a narrow bed on wheels, and taken her away.

Later, people with big flashlights walked around the backyard. They headed for the woods shouting, “Willow! Willow! Come out now, honey!
Willow
!” That’s when Willow began retreating deeper into the shelter of the trees because she knew the people wanted to take her away. They wanted to make her walk past the little rubber pool where the fire had claimed Mommy, past her home, where she’d felt safer than in any other place in the world—the place that was now just a scary, smoky shell that didn’t look anything like her and Mommy’s dear little house. Willow knew what they wanted, and she couldn’t bear to go. She
wouldn’t
go, and they couldn’t make her if they couldn’t find her!

Deeper into the woods she moved. Mommy had said there might be bad things in the woods—snakes, maybe even a wolf. She did have the feeling that she wasn’t alone—a twig snapped close by, and Willow thought that she heard movement in the tangle of weeds and creeping vines beneath the trees. Maybe it
was
a wolf or a poison snake. She didn’t care about wolves and snakes after what she’d just seen, though. Willow almost hoped a poison snake would bite her or a wolf would eat her.

It didn’t matter because now only Diana and Uncle Simon would miss her, and they’d probably soon forget her because she wasn’t their real family. Besides, she didn’t want to live if Mommy wasn’t with her. Being a little girl wouldn’t be any fun without Mommy—Mommy who sometimes raised her voice if Willow did something
wrong, but who mostly laughed, played Candyland whenever she had time, and sometimes at night let Willow wear lipstick and dress up like she was a grown-up girl. But what Willow loved most was when Mommy put on music and danced like an angel, her feet barely touching the floor and her eyes looking as if she saw some beautiful, magic, faraway land.

Tears stung Willow’s eyes, inflamed and hurting from all the smoke. She didn’t want to start crying. She didn’t want to make a noise. Otherwise, all those people with their yelling and their bright flashlights would find her. She would be happy if she could just stay here forever; except that forever was a long time, and she already felt loneliness descending on her like a dark, cold cloud.

Willow lay her head against the trunk of the tree. It seemed like the shouting had grown softer and the lights were moving in a different direction. The people in uniforms—the people who had taken Mommy and wanted to take her, too—were finally going away. Willow rubbed her head against the rough tree trunk, searching for a comfortable spot. Maybe she could just go to sleep and no one would find her for days or even years.

She’d grown drowsy when she first heard the man’s voice. It was a nice voice, deep and soft and soothing, not loud and piercing like the other voices had been, yelling out her name so harshly they frightened even the night birds into flight. No, this voice sounded kind and warm. This voice sounded
safe
. And to top it off, the man was saying a rhyme—a happy, pretty rhyme. Willow cocked her head and listened:

If I could capture that fat white moon
I’d drag it down to earth so soon,
I’d tie it up in a pink satin bow
And give it to my pretty Willow.

 

If I could capture that fat white moon
I’d drag it down to earth so soon. . . .

Suddenly the man stood in front of her. He looked like a giant, so tall and straight. For a moment, Willow felt overwhelming fear. Then he stooped in front of her and, even in the moonlight, she could see his blondish hair and his bright blue eyes. He smiled at her—such a nice smile—and said very softly, “Willow.”

Tremulously she held out her carefully tended jar of sparkle bugs. He took it, studied the bugs twinkling and winking, and he smiled his nice smile at her again. Finally he set down the jar and held out his arms.

Willow gazed back for moment. Then she ran her tongue over her dry lips and said just above a whisper, “It’s you!”

When he returned from the garage, Simon looked at Clarice seated stiffly on a small, hard chair in the foyer. “Mrs. Hanson, please come into the library and have something to drink.” He was already putting an arm around her shoulder and gently but firmly helping her rise, steering her toward the room at the left. “Do you like brandy?”

“I’ll just have a glass of water,” Clarice said almost shyly, not looking at him.

“Water!”
Simon sounded as if she’d just asked for a glass of poison. “That’s absurd. Water won’t do a thing for your nerves, and they need soothing. So do mine. You’ll be doing Diana and me a favor to have a drink with us. Won’t she, Diana?”

“Yes,” Diana said lifelessly, knowing a glass of liquor wasn’t going to calm any of their nerves tonight.

Diana followed them into Simon’s library, which was really the heart of the house where he spent most of his time. Mrs. Hanson took two steps beyond the entrance and halted. The room spanned the width of the house. The woman’s gaze traveled over the soaring vault of the ceiling from where a large bronze-and-amber chandelier hung above a long, shining walnut table bearing stacks of books and small brass desk lamps with opalescent shades.

At the front of the room, a smaller version of the bronze chandelier gleamed over a grand piano placed near a floor-to-ceiling bay window bordered with opened cream-colored draperies. Quality antique and modern chairs and couches dominated the center of the room. The hodgepodge of styles and colors should have clashed, but instead they looked comfortable and inviting. Another bay window graced the back of the room. An outside light shone through a center pane bearing an inset of stained glass depicting a vibrant sapphire-blue water lily with a golden center. Beneath the window stretched a wide, dark blue velvet-covered window seat.

“Goodness gracious,” Mrs. Hanson breathed. “This room is awesome, as my grandson would say.”

Simon emitted a dry laugh. “Overpowering is more like it. My grandfather built this house. He demanded that his son and wife, my parents, live with him. I was born and reared here, so I don’t pay much attention to it—not even this humdinger of a library.”

“You and Penny worked in this room, didn’t you?” Mrs. Hanson asked. Simon nodded. “She told me it was beautiful, but I didn’t imagine it to be so grand.”

Simon gave her a comforting smile. “Mrs. Hanson, you’re hardly in the presence of royalty. I was a university professor. I never made enough money to build a house like this one—I simply inherited the place. My father believed the male child should have the house. I wanted to sell it and split the profit with my sister, but she wouldn’t hear of my selling the old place. She said it’s the family home.”

“No wonder she didn’t want you to sell it. The house is lovely.”

“Thank you. Now please sit and make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Hanson.” Simon led her to a large easy chair and offered her an arm to which she clung, as she slowly bent her stiff, arthritic knees and lowered herself.

She let out a sigh of relief then blushed. “I suppose I was more tired than I thought. And do call me Clarice.”

“Clarice is a beautiful name. I’m Simon.”

Clarice smiled shyly at Simon, but when he turned away from her, Diana saw the woman’s face turn desolate again. Clarice was trying hard to be sociable and strong, not to fall apart in front of strangers, Diana thought, but she’d suffered the fright of her life, not to mention the crushing grief for Penny.

As Clarice’s gaze scanned the room, Diana joined Simon behind the bar. “She needs her walker,” she whispered to him. “We didn’t get it out of her house.”

Simon spoke softly. “Luckily, I bought the one that fool doctor insisted I use after I twisted my leg on my last expedition.”

“You didn’t
twist
your leg, Uncle Simon. You broke your thigh.”

“A hairline fracture is nearly nothing!” Simon hissed back impatiently. “The walker is in the attic. I never wanted to see it again,” he said, raising his voice. “Clarice, would you prefer cognac or armagnac?”

Clarice jumped in her chair and let out a startled “Oh!” She caught her breath. “I wouldn’t know the difference. As I said, water would be fine.”

“Cognac it is. I know armagnac is becoming more popular, but I’ve always preferred the lighter notes of cognac. . . .”

Impatience washed over Diana as Simon rattled on about cognac—trivial chatter, considering the circumstances. Then she noticed how his hands shook as he poured three generous servings, splashing some over the side of one brandy snifter. She had seen her great-uncle enter dark, frightening tunnels in pyramids—tunnels that had caused even a few seasoned explorers to balk—and he’d never shown the slightest hesitation, the tiniest tremor of apprehension. Yet now Simon prattled and quivered.

He’d loved Penny and Willow. Obviously, shock, horror, and devastation filled Simon tonight. Still, he refused to give in to his own emotions, using banal talk to hide
his feelings from the delicate, shaken Clarice Hanson. Diana’s annoyance with Simon vanished, as her love for him grew even stronger on this dreadful evening.

Simon handed Diana a glass, and she immediately took a gulp she couldn’t swallow, her throat feeling like sandpaper from the smoke and tight from the effort of holding back tears. She closed her eyes and rolled the liquor around her mouth before letting it slowly trickle down her throat. She had felt cold to her bones, but within a couple of minutes, the liquor’s warmth began to spread through her. Slowly Diana’s inner trembling lessened, and for the first time since Penny’s house had erupted into flames, she was able to draw a deep breath.

“How’s your cognac, Clarice?” Simon asked.

“Delicious,” she said with a smile. “The last drink I had was a glass of champagne on my seventieth birthday two years ago. Actually, my Henry, God rest his soul, said I had
three
glasses. I don’t remember.” Clarice’s slight smile disappeared. “But that was a happy night. Not like—”

“Tonight.” Simon nodded as he looked down at the fragile woman. “I know it seems wrong for us to be serving drinks after what’s happened, but it isn’t as if we’re having a party. We’re only trying to hold ourselves together. After all, we aren’t in a position to help Penny, and we have young Tyler out looking for Willow.” He frowned. “Diana, who
is
this Tyler Raines fellow?”

Diana tried to hold her own glass steady, although she knew her hand jerked at the mention of Tyler Raines. Still, she tried for a nonchalant shrug. “All I know is what he told you. He doesn’t live here.” She looked intently into her great-uncle’s face. “I don’t know one thing about him except what he claims is his name,” Diana said significantly.

“And that he’s brave,” Clarice added staunchly, seeming to miss the nuance of skepticism in Diana’s voice. “He carried me out of my house to safety, then he went back and tried to help the firefighters, and now he’s looking for
Willow. I’d say all of that is far above and beyond the call of duty, especially when he’s doing it all for absolute strangers.”

“Yes, it is,” Simon said thoughtfully, picking up his own snifter of brandy and shifting his acute gaze from Clarice to Diana. “It certainly is.”