The Return. Dinah McCall
voice she was hearing. She rolled over, then looked up, at first seeing only the silhouette of Pulpit Rock above her. And then she focused and sighed. It would seem that she’d found the witch after all.
The woman’s hair was dark and long, braided into a single plait that hung over her shoulder as she knelt at Fancy’s side. Her hands were gentle, her voice soft as she urged Fancy to her feet.
“Get up, girl, get up.”
“I can’t,” Fancy whispered. “Something broke inside me. I’m bleeding.”
The woman’s hands were swift and sure as she made a quick assessment of Fancy’s wounds. The shadows hid her shock at the pool of blood beneath the girl.
“I can help you,” she whispered. “Just try to stand. My cabin isn’t far.”
But Fancy’s world was already diminishing, and moving even an inch was beyond her.
“Don’t let them get my baby,” Fancy begged, and thrust the child into the witch’s arms.
The woman rocked back on her heels, shocked by the choice the young mother had just made.
“I’ll stay. We’ll fight off the dogs together until the hunters get here,” she said. “I can’t leave you.”
Fancy shook her head. “If it’s Jubal Blair, he’ll kill you, too, just to get to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“My name is Fancy Joslin. Turner Blair is my husband and the baby’s father, only Jubal doesn’t know.”
The woman was shocked. Even in her isolation, she’d known of the families’ feud.
“Surely he wouldn’t…”
Fancy grabbed the witch’s arm. “I’m dying, woman, and please God, you’ve got to grant my last request. Save my child from this hell. Take her away from these mountains and love her as you would your own.” Fancy’s voice faded, then caught on a weak sob. “Her name is Catherine, and when it matters, tell her how much her mother loved her.”
The woman bowed her head as she cradled the now crying baby close to her breasts.
“I just can’t leave you here,” the woman cried. “Don’t ask me to do this.”
With her last bit of strength, Fancy grabbed the woman by the wrist and raised herself up on one elbow to stare directly into her eyes.
“Your name, witch…” Fancy gasped. “What is your name?”
The woman hesitated, then touched the side of Fancy’s face in a comforting gesture.
“My name is Annie Fane.”
“Then go, Annie Fane. If you do nothing else on this earth in your time, for God’s sake, save my child.”
The dogs were closer now, too close. By best estimates, less than a quarter of a mile away and closing fast. Fancy stared into the woman’s face until she was satisfied with what she saw; then she dropped back onto the forest floor.
Suddenly the woman stood. Fancy blinked. One moment she was there. The next she was gone. At that point, Fancy shuddered with relief. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered now. She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the inevitable.
Turner was in tears by the time he reached the cave. From the fading sounds ahead, he guessed he was a good five minutes behind. And from the appearance of the interior, he knew that she’d been found. The place was in a shambles, but what frightened him most was the bloody dress on the floor and the fact that everyone was gone. Had they taken Fancy hostage, or had she, by some miracle, escaped ahead of them? And why the blood? Had they killed her already and were trying to hide the body? And the baby—what about the baby? Fear threatened to swallow him whole, but there was no time to panic. His only option was to follow the pack and pray that he got there in time to stop a tragedy before it happened. He dashed out of the cave, saying a prayer as he went.
He ran with his flashlight in one hand and his rifle in the other, dodging low-hanging limbs and jumping over exposed roots that might cause him to fall. Once he thought he saw a light a few hundred yards ahead and yelled out his father’s name, but no one answered. He kept on moving, running until the stitch in his side had spread to his belly, and his lungs were weak and burning, refusing to admit that his legs felt like rubber and his boots felt as if they were made of lead.
Just when he thought he could go no farther, he got a second wind. Desperately, he increased his speed, ignoring the stinging slaps of tree limbs against his face and body, unaware that his clothes were being ripped into shreds by the tentacles of dry limbs and brush. Nothing mattered except Fancy.
It seemed the sound of the dogs and the run would never end when, up ahead, he saw a trio of lights. It was them! Wanting to yell for them to wait, he found he had no breath left to speak. Spurred on by the fact that they were so near, he flipped the safety off the gun and fired, praying that they would hear the shot and stop.
Fancy jerked, coming back to consciousness as a shot rang out. She moaned and opened her eyes, only to realize she could no longer see the stars—only a spreading darkness that was coming closer and closer to where she lay. In the distance, she could hear the flurry of rustling leaves as the hounds traversed the forest floor. Their barking had turned into bays and howls, but it no longer mattered. The darkness was closer than the hounds. Within it would be shelter and salvation. She welcomed it with her last breath.
She never knew when the hounds burst into the clearing and raced toward Pulpit Rock. What they did to her earthbound body no longer mattered. She was soaring toward the light.
As the sound of Turner’s gunshot was still echoing within the trees, he saw a hesitation in the lights and almost cried with relief. But the relief was short-lived. The growls and yips of snarling dogs struck fear in his heart—it was the sound they made as they fell upon their prey. All he could think was, No, Daddy, no.
Seconds later, he ran into the circle of lights, shouting at Jubal Blair like a man gone mad.
“Where is she?” he screamed. “What have you done with Fancy?”
Taken aback by his behavior and appearance, their hesitation in answering was to become their last mistake.
Turner groaned, then pushed past them, following the sound of the pack. Seconds later, he burst out of the trees into the clearing to find himself below Pulpit Rock—the moonlight casting harsh, ugly shadows onto the carnage below it. In the blue-silver glow, he could see a bit of leg and the fabric of a woman’s dress beneath the pack, and he began to come undone, shooting dogs as he ran.
The silence that came after was as horrifying as the hounds had been. With choking sobs, he dragged the carcass of a dog off of her body, then dropped his gun, frantically gathering her up in his arms.
At first the wounds upon her body didn’t register. He kept stroking her arms and her face, begging her to move, to call out his name. But she was too still—too silent. He laid a hand on her stomach, trying to shake her awake. As he did, it hit him that her belly was almost flat. The baby! My God…the baby!
A new fear shafted through him as he looked around the clearing and saw nothing but dogs. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere, but he wouldn’t give in to the truth. Choking back sobs, he laid his cheek against her face, cradling her close.
“Fancy…honey…it’s me, Turner. Wake up now, sweetheart, I’ve come to take you home.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, her head rolled to one side, revealing pale, sightless eyes. He exhaled on a moan. Too late. He’d come too late.
A sense of loss washed over him, so profound that it took the breath from his body. At that moment, he didn’t think his next breath would come. Yet when it did, it was a roar of such grief that the echo of it spilled out in