A Divine Wind

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http://jsmagic.net/divinewind.pdf

“A Divine Wind”

by jb pearce

Forward

Sometimes, as we journey through life, we unexpectedly meet someone we feel has no place in our life –that the person is not someone we would normally choose to know or spend time with.

At one time or another, we have all met an individual like that and later come to realize, even with reservations, that the person indeed contributed some form of understanding we might not otherwise have ever known.

It is a divine wind that has brought these people to us because, without even knowing, we needed to come to know and understand them in order for us to grow…

Chapter 1

When the Wind sweeps across the blistering Texas plains, she is ruthless - pushing and prodding anything that may obstinately lie in her path. She shows no mercy at night, rattling the eaves of ramshackled old barns and menacingly flinging tumbleweeds across the famished terrain, while she dredges out the yawning gorges and canyons that traditionally pockmark the land.

Her autumn tirades are no less kind - churning the foliage into feeble submission, while her summer extremes whip the brutal temperatures across any vulnerable flesh she can find, scorching and searing the skin as she goes.

Come winter, she spawns the vicious blasts of storms that pierce the populace to the bone, so that they can no longer recall what it was like to have ever been warm. Then, when spring finally forces its way to the forefront, that iniquitous element Wind howls at the world in tornadic outbursts that bully their way through all of the nooks and crannies of those weary worn dwellings that no longer have the strength to resist.

A Texas wind is a force to be reckoned with. She knows no limitations, no bounds. She is “El Toro”, leveling all in her path like the running of the bulls at Pamplona. She scars the land with distant memories of better times and a false promise of hope. She is the sole taskmistress of Texas. She is the reason that people call it “God’s Country.” After all, who else would have it?

The weather, which dominates all else in the Lone Star State, is not for the fainthearted. You must be a survivor, and you must work at it. And rural life in West Texas, settled alone in the middle of nowhere, can feel even more isolated than ordinary to many. Having nothing but a string of barbed wire, a few head of cattle, and an occasional mesquite tree for companionship, can seem as friendless as the far reaches of the Moon, but for some, the seclusion is a welcome respite…a relief from the mundane task of socializing. For Arden Hunter, that was the case.

At times, the responsibilities of maintaining her isolated lifestyle bore heavily on her making her feel old before her time. She well knew there would be days when she temporarily forgot just how old she really was, when the labors of the day drained her of what little strength she had and served as a constant reminder of just how exhausting ranch life could be. Time and again, she had mustered the determination it took to corral the ranch into manageable submission. She had done it for what seemed like centuries, and she would go on doing it…for as long as it took. After all, she was a part of the old place again.

The blistering paint on the dilapidated barn was just another token to remind her that there would always be some chore that remained undone. The stables now sheltered only a few horses that were merely killing time until she would put them out to pasture. The meager scattering of pigs and chickens that were a calamitous source of noise and bother demanded her attention whenever they could corner her, while the few head of cattle that supported the place bellowed eagerly only now and again for a turn of her hand. They all paid for their keep.

She smiled at the thought of them, especially the scruffy little Cairn Terrier, Buster, who had been her constant companion for the last few years. She cared for her creatures, and each, in their own way, cared for her. “We ALL earn our keep,” she reminded herself, greeting Buster’s appreciative gaze with a light massage of her hand, “Yes we do, we all earn our keep around here, don’t we old man?” Buster nodded his agreement as if he had understood every word.

Even with the shade of twilight beginning to lower, she could make out the swelling clouds in the distance. Embryonic rumblings occasionally penetrated their sanctity, while frequent flashes of lightning illuminated the menacing thunderheads. She knew what it meant and picked up her gait to batten down her menagerie of players for a secure night against the ensuing bad weather.

Arden and Buster had just ambled through the back door and sat down for a bite of supper, when the radio that served as her daily sentinel, blasted out the latest weather predictions.

“For Wood and surrounding counties, heavy thunderstorms, wind gusts up to 60 miles per hour, and a tornado watch until 3 A.M. Stay tuned to this station for breaking patterns in the weather…” She switched it off and resigned herself to the fact it was going to be a long night. She sat at the kitchen table surveying her realm and trying to decide if she was, too, tired to eat. She opted for a hot bubble bath with a Scotch chaser on the side. “That’ll be just the ticket,” she sighed, and made her way to the bathroom after pouring herself a short glass of Johnny Walker Red with a splash of soda.

Strains of soft jazz from the portable DVD player she kept in her bathroom haven drifted above the sound of running water in the old claw foot tub, as Arden slipped down into its inviting kindness. She closed her eyes and envisioned herself in some remote part of Paris dancing passionately with a tall, dark stranger. One leg, reliving the dance, emerged from its bubbly soak to slowly trace its rhythmic motions across the shadows of the bathroom wall.

A gardenia scented candle glowed from the edge of the tub and the tumbler of Scotch waited patiently by its side, while Arden, puffing on a Swisher Sweet, relaxed in the antique tub. She loved those little cigars and allowed herself at least a part of one every night. It was her own lavish reward for a day well spent.

She caringly chose from one of the various bottles of perfumed lotions lined up on the shelf over the tub. “Jasmine, yes Jasmine,” she sighed, ceremoniously lavishing the healing cream against the hardened calluses of her feet and hands. “Ahhhhh,” she drawled to the night, as she sunk lower into the recesses of the tub and took her first sip of the liquid gold… “Sanctuary, at last.”

It seemed to Arden she had exhausted her entire life in trying to get away from this place, but she had never been able to stay for long. She was drawn to it time and time again like a magnet that is constantly yanked back to its core. A university education’s attention had held her interest for a while, as she honed the mind that thirsted for a continuous trove of knowledge. Philosophy, history, ancient religions, science, animal husbandry, art, literature, music, they were all a part of her now filling that abyss inside her that hungered for any shred of enlightenment.

She had been vibrant then, optimistic, bursting with anticipation at her prospects. She had gorged herself on every crumb of life she could consume, with no trace of guilt for her aging parents who labored at home to support her carefree existence.

Her body was tired now, long and lanky, with a few spiteful veins of cellulite here and there with skin that had been gently weathered by the sun. She still had her shape, but the elements and hard work had taken their toll on her once youthful looks. The miniscule, silver streaks that branched out in that once auburn mane reminded her each time she passed a mirror that she was not getting any younger. The harsh remembrance of an agonizing divorce had done that to her years earlier. The defeated retreat home had aged her, but the ranching and building of something again had helped to smooth over the scars and fill her with new resolve.

Her hair, released from its customary single braid, cascaded over the back of the tub and hung in silent surrender, as she lavishly bathed away the fatigue of the day. Another track on the DVD began to echo a tender strain of jazz that transported her back to another place and time…a time when she had felt passion and dared to anticipate a life for herself with someone she could trust.

She let herself drift into the recollection of it, slipping lower in the tub, while she rinsed herself in the richness of bath oil and bubbles. It was another one of the few private pleasures she allowed herself, reminiscing with an occasional reminder of the transitory happiness she had so fleetingly enjoyed from the only romantic involvement she had shared eons ago.

“Damn!” she cursed aloud, for allowing herself the luxury of those past seductive memories which ultimately thrust that painful sentimentality back into her thoughts. “He wasn’t worth it,” she spat aloud, and reached dotingly down to give Buster one more pat on the head where he lay snoring on the bath mat beside her. “You’re the only man in my life now, old boy, and all that there ever will be. He wasn’t there for me then and he never would have been.” Bitterness had set up residence in her temperament long ago and she had no intention of discarding it now.

The hall clock chimed ten o’clock, as she dried herself and pulled on an old pair of men’s boxer shorts and a Budweiser t-shirt. Plodding across the kitchen floor in her Miss Piggy house shoes, she headed toward the refrigerator to see what she might retrieve for a late night snack. It had been hours since lunch and she had been, too, busy to stop for anything in between. Leftovers gazed out at her, as she stood staring into the fridge trying to decide if anything hiding there might be worth the effort of heating it up. She grabbed a cold biscuit, a piece of ham and a deviled egg.

The thunder in the distance rose to a boiling crescendo, reminding her again of the torrent that would surely inundate them in an hour or so.

“Three tornado funnels have been spotted outside of Coldwell in Wood County,” the radio rang out. “Only minor damages reported so far. Stay tuned to this station for further developments as we receive them.”

She switched the radio off. “Nothing I can do about that. If it’s my time, it’s my time,” she reconciled herself, as she slammed the refrigerator door shut and headed to bed with Buster following close at her heels.

As she crossed the threshold of the bedroom, she stood there assessing her handiwork. The walls had been textured a dusty rose and the creamy woodwork she had labored over sent a breath of calm through her. She sat down before the dresser and leaned into the mirror, turning this way and that, examining the contours of her face for any new lines. “None today,” she thought “just the usual number of crow’s feet fighting for their place in the sun.”

She reached for the jar of Pond’s Dry Skin Cream and slathered it generously over her face. “Good leather needs lubrication,” she remembered Paw warning, and she had taken his advice to heart.

Buster scurried up the doggy stairs at the foot of the bed and began rearranging his nest for the night, scratching and circling, tugging at the covers until he was thoroughly satisfied he had achieved the best possible arrangement.

“Sweet dreams, old man,” she called to him over her shoulder. He stirred one last time and happily licked the air in her direction before settling in for the night.

After brushing her hair its customary 100 strokes, she rose to peel back the covers and slide into the creamy coolness of the sheets, grateful to have one more day behind her.

When Arden slept, she slept the sleep of the dead. There, pampered in the luxury of silk sheets and a down comforter, Arden closed her eyes and envisioned all the places she might one day visit - Italy, the English countryside in spring, Paris with its nightlife, and Spain, yes, of course, Spain for the Tango. She had planned and scrimped year after year to make the trek to Europe one day that promised to be her only reward for all the sweat and devotion she had poured into the old place. One day, she told herself, she would see that it all came true.

Night after night, she had surfed the Internet developing an itinerary, saving photos of this place and that, permitting Google to guide her in the direction she might ultimately go. It was the one enduring dream she would not be denied. There was more than $85,000.00 saved now from the inheritance her parents had left her and her 401k from the university, and she had merely a short distance to go before she would have amassed the full $100,000.00 she anticipated she might need for the lavish trip. She had budgeted for everything - the plane and train tickets, lodging, food, and shopping for a wardrobe in boutiques she had never been privy to, except in Glamour or Vogue.

She might have been a rancher, somewhat worn down by the toils of life, but inside she was still a woman…a woman who had a taste and an appreciation for the finer things in life. This trip would be the realization of her dreams - those finer things in life she felt she deserved, and she would not be denied.

The constant tick, tick, ticking of the bedroom clock lulled her into a deeper state of euphoria, as she dreamed of the journey she would one day realize. She had waited. She had been patient. She had pinched pennies when it mattered. Her spirit was brimming with determination. She would not be denied this one thing. Not this time.

Chapter 2.

There had been a time when self-sacrifice was all she knew - a time when she worked the ranch and devotedly nursed first her father through the anguish of Cancer, then her mother through those agonizing years of Alzheimers, while she wasted away to nothing.

They were both gone now. Arden had fulfilled her daughterly duty, repaid them for their thoughtfulness and their patience with her, as best she could, as lovingly as they deserved. And afterward, she had pushed aside any pangs of guilt that might have implied, perhaps, that she could have done more. In all good conscience, she knew she couldn’t have. Not that it mattered; everyone said no one could have done more for them. No one could deny that their only child had devotedly tended and cared for them, while making certain that their legacy, the ranch, would prosper in their absence.

Menacing clouds continued to assemble from the West, huddling together like scolded children waiting for the opportunity to rebel in retaliation. Arden slept with no regard for their vengeance. The hailstones were biting and unforgiving to the land, the house, the livestock. She lightly stirred, rolling over briefly to acknowledge the dominance of the storm, but refused to succumb to its raucous demands.

She dreamt of Drake again. It had been a while. But the freshness of his smell, his face, his touch was still as overpowering as ever. Sometimes, dreams were enough, more than enough, less complicated, easier to tolerate in the long run.

He had been every woman’s dream, a striking professor in his early thirties, a bohemian sense of humor, the boyish good looks, and those captivating brown eyes, complete with the knowledge of how to command a woman’s soul.

Arden was no match for him - inexperienced then in anything, except her studies, the ranch, her life goals. She was a first year professor in Animal Husbandry at the University. She noticed his glances, even while he held court in the cafeteria among the throngs of giggling coeds that hung on his every word. She ignored him. She had no time for an egotistical charmer in her life. But still, the glances continued, longer, more daringly conspicuous in her direction.

His opportunity arose one bitterly cold morning when, after school, her car refused to start. She was standing in front of the car, peering under the hood, wondering what was wrong with it. “The battery? Was it dead? Or was it the starter?” She wasn’t sure. All she really knew, or cared to know, about cars was that they get her where she wanted to go with as little trouble as possible. It was intolerably cold, and she had only worn a light jacket that day. “Damnation,” she muttered, and slammed the hood.

“Now, now! Would that be a fitting expletive for our innocent young coeds to hear coming from one of their Professors?”

Before turning to see who was admonishing her, she blurted out: “Oh, go take a hike!”

Raucous laughter rang out behind her, as she turned to see the notorious Professor Drake, awaiting her response. When he finally stopped laughing, he introduced himself and instructed her to get in and try to start the car again.

“From what I heard over there, it sounded like the starter.” He busied himself looking under the hood and fidgeting with the battery. “But, of course, it could be the battery. Batteries often go dead when it gets this cold. Do you know how old your battery is?” he asked, peering around the hood of the car.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” she responded. “Maybe a year old, maybe two.” She paused, watching him examining the car. “Sorry, about the only thing I know about cars is to call the Auto Club when the blasted things don’t work.” As an afterthought, she added: “And that’s about all that I really care to know.”

He approached the window of the car smiling. A trace of his cologne permeated the air in the car and filled her nostrils. It was a smell she had not experienced before. It reeked of corduroy smoking jackets, the spicy after shave her grandfather used to wear, and freshly tanned leather. It left her a little lightheaded.

He slid in close to her onto the front seat and turned the key. “It just keeps making that clicking noise, over and over,” she lamented.

“I’m afraid it’s your starter. You can’t get that fixed tonight,” he said, exiting the car and slamming the hood shut. “You’ll need to call your Auto Club to tow it tomorrow to a mechanic to replace that starter. I have a good mechanic if you need one. I’ve used him for years if you’d like me to call him for you tomorrow,” he suggested, leaning back through the window of the car.

The headiness of his scent again aroused a new sensation that left her at a loss for words. She sat there entranced for what seemed like hours before finally muttering: “Well, yes that would be great. Could I have his name? I’m relatively new to this area,” she said fumbling in her purse for a pen and paper.

“Here,” he said digging through his wallet, “here is one of his cards. You can just have the Auto Club tow it to the address on the card and Jack will be glad to fix it for you. He’s very reasonable.”

“Thanks, again,” she offered demurely, “and I apologize for that little outburst back there earlier. I thought everyone had already gone for the night and I was feeling pretty frustrated and pretty cold.”

“Oh, absolutely forgiven and forgotten. No apology necessary if you will let me chauffeur you home, since you’re apparently without transportation.”

She had allowed that first door to open, the informal introduction, and then more chance encounters he had managed to arrange, a few glasses of wine after work at the local tavern, and then finally, that seminar in New York City.

New York had been her undoing. A Broadway show, the French restaurant, the underground jazz club; he knew all the right places. He was at home in New York. They were there for five days and Professor Drake took every advantage of illustrating his sophisticated posture there in his old territory. She had been easy prey for his social engineering, and even though she could see it coming, she had never hesitated for a minute to take the plunge.

They slept together the second night of that trip, even though she wasn’t mentally prepared for it. Several dry martinis paved the way for the professor to readily convince her that nothing could be more natural than for them to top off the night by going to bed together. She actually never regretted that particular decision. After all, he was an expert in the art of making love.

It was the aftermath she regretted, that polish, that air of superiority that allowed him to lie to her again and again after they were eventually married. She was smarter than he’d bargained for and not as willing to turn a blind eye to the coed dalliances he had enjoyed for years. Her distrust of him had been their undoing and the harsh taste their relationship had left in her mouth remained to this day.

Chapter 3.

The scrub oak outside her bedroom window bowed and raked its burly branches across the screen under the unyielding resolve of the wind.

It was some time after 3:00 A.M. when she awoke with a start. Lying there in the dark, she deliberated for a few minutes about what had awakened her. Was it the dream? The reminder of Drake? Was it the storm? No, not the storm. She had slept through April storms much worse than this one. The light snores of Buster from the foot of the bed floated up to her. He had grown as complacent as she in his old age. She had scolded him more than once for turning a smiling face and a wagging tail to a wandering stranger.

Groggily, she made a vague attempt to distinguish what it was that had stirred her into wakefulness. In due course, she recognized that it was a smell…a smell that was out of place there in the stillness of the bedroom - a smell she groggily reasoned was familiar, but one that did not belong there. Dreamily, she reasoned it wasn’t fire. God only knew it wasn’t that. She had become all too familiar with that smell in her years of running a ranch. There was no smell on earth that struck fear in the heart of a landowner like it.

Her mind wandered, half in and out of sleep, between trying to determine what she had smelled there in the dark and trying to force herself back into the lifeless sleep from which she had been so annoyingly aroused.

When it finally came to her, she sat bolt upright in the bed, tossing back the covers and surveyed the darkened room from whence the smell had come. “Mud!” she thought. “Good, old Texas mud.” But what was that smell doing here permeating the air in the house? Her first instincts were of flooding. She gazed around the bedroom, straining to see, listening, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark before getting out of bed.

“Take care not to make any sudden movements,” an understated voice commanded from the Bentley rocker by the door. “I have no intention of harming you. Just be still and listen to what I have to say.”

She paused in mid stride and sat as still as death, waiting, waiting.

That pause in the voice seemed to hang in the air for hours before it went on: “I am merely seeking shelter from the storm for the night. I mean you no harm.”

She felt an arctic chill run up the curvature of her spine, when she bunched the covers up around her neck, as if they might shield her from any nameless threat. Buster stirred, but did not wake. She nudged him with her foot in a vain attempt to spark him to life. As he had often done before, he ignored her intrusion and continued to snore.

She sat there, braced against the pillows, listening, waiting.

Finally, she hurled her question at the unknown intruder: “Who the hell are you and what in God’s name are you doing in my house at this hour?”

A man rose from the rocking chair that creaked under his weight. “I’ve told you, madam, I am not here to harm you. I’m merely seeking some temporary shelter from the storm.”

Courage began to boil inside her. “You can bet your sweet ass you won’t harm me. Probably the other way around, if truth be told,” she threatened, fearlessly swinging her legs over the side of the bed and switching on the nightstand lamp. “Let’s have a look at you, mister! I like to face my enemies head on.”

He was rich in color, tall, of medium build, with at least a half a day’s growth of beard gilding his cheek.

“Why, you’re black,” she said, incredulously.

He smiled warily. “Not really, madam,” he smiled. “More of a nice golden brown, if you look a little closer.”

She wasn’t amused. “Very funny! Now, what the hell do you want? I have no money…none to speak of, that is, maybe ten or twenty bucks at the most. And,” she added, as an afterthought, “that’s all you’ll get out of me without a fight. I can promise you that!”

“I can assure you, my good woman; I will be more than satisfied in whatever manner you deem fit to assist me. Shelter till morning, a bite to eat perhaps, maybe some dry clothes if you can spare them. I will be more than glad to leave you in peace after that.”

She watched his eyes. She was accustomed to judging people by the sincerity in their eyes. It was a lesson she had learned well. “You still haven’t told me who you are and what the hell you’re doing here. Before I set one foot out of this bed, I have a right to know what I’m dealing with.”

“If you must know,” he said, “I have escaped from Landimoor Penitentiary a few miles from here, and I suspect it won’t be long before they will be knocking on all the doors around here looking for me.”

“Well, that’s just dandy,” she said, her toe searching under the edge of the bed for the Miss Piggy house shoes. “Just what I need on a God forsaken night like this, a shootout between a posse and a fugitive from justice.” She mumbled some faint expletives under her breath, as she rose from the bed.

“Hand me that robe off the hook on the back of the door,” she ordered.

He did as he was instructed, while she waited, hands on hips, watching his every move. Only the solemnity of the situation prevented him from laughing out loud when he turned to face her, robe in hand, and saw her standing there clad in men’s boxer shorts, a Budweiser t-shirt, and the Miss Piggy house shoes. She regarded him closely, her eyes narrowed, daring him to even snicker at her choice of attire, while she ensconced herself in the old chenille robe.

He lingered by the bedroom door in an attempt to anticipate her next move.

“Look at those shoes!” she said accusingly. “Why you’ve tracked mud all over the place. Get in there in the kitchen and take those shoes off before you make any more of a mess.”

Obediently, he slipped off his shoes and moved to the kitchen where he sat them beside the back door.

“My apologies, madam. If you’ll direct me to some paper towels, I’ll try and clean up the mess I’ve made.”

“Well, never mind that for now. You said you’re hungry,” she sneered at him, not waiting for a response before adding: “Never saw a man who wasn’t. Always hungry, yes, they are. Eating whatever you shove in front of ‘em,” she muttered, angrily pushing past him on her way out of the room and into the kitchen.

He followed submissively, entertaining the notion this might be some ploy to throw him off guard, so she might attempt an escape. She switched on the kitchen light, as he trailed close behind her.

“Sit yourself down there,” she said, motioning him toward the dated Formica and chrome dinette set that had been in style some 50 years earlier. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

He was puzzled at her lack of apparent panic. Somewhat hesitatingly, he asked: “Are you not afraid, madam, or do you often find yourself entertaining intruders in the middle of the night?”

“Afraid?” she snapped. “Do I need to be? You said I had nothing to be afraid of, or have you lied to me already?” She eyed him suspiciously. “You’ve got a weapon of some kind, I suppose.”

Sheepishly, he pulled a makeshift knife from the pocket of his rain-drenched pants.

“Is that it? Is that the best you’ve got?” she mocked.

He looked down at the shiv. He knew what an instrument like that could do inside prison walls. He’d seen it more than once. She had no idea what life was like there, inside the wall, trapped, locked away from everything and everyone you cared about. She had no idea how difficult it had been there, not only to guard his life, but his sanity, as well.

Lost in thought, he looked up just in time to watch her turn, and reach into a kitchen drawer. She suddenly withdrew a nickel-plated revolver and brandished it in his direction, “I don’t guess you’ve heard that old adage about not coming to a gun fight with a knife, have you now?” she taunted.

Neither of them said a word. Like two animals, sizing up each other’s strengths and weaknesses, they waited for their opponent’s next move.

He was stunned, but resolute. “I can assure you, madam; this pittance is not the only weapon in my arsenal. I also happen to be a Black Belt capable of managing almost any situation. I didn’t get where I am by being passive.”

“So, how does that work for you against bullets?” she mocked, taking cautious aim at his torso. “Those karate chops of yours usually fend off the force of cold, hard steel, do they?”

“If there aren’t any bullets in the weapon, it’s really beside the point, isn’t it?” he asked. “You see,” he went on, “I already found your weapon and removed the bullets earlier tonight when I first broke in.” He smiled in her direction. “Yes ma’am, you see I know what State I’m in. Don’t all Texans own guns?” He held out his hand filled with the bullets from the gun.

Remembering she had a supply of bullets in the back of the drawer, she spun around to retrieve the errant bullets. He lunged for the pistol and adeptly removed it from her grasp.

Her eyes narrowed into accusing slits when she realized she had been bested.

“I trust there will be no more exercises in futility tonight” he said. “I’ve assured you that I am not here to harm you, nor will I take anything from you that you are unwilling to give.” He pulled out a kitchen chair and motioned her to sit.

The scuffle had wakened Buster who now stood at the door blearily watching them through sleep ridden eyes. He assessed the situation, let out a couple of yaps, and then stood staring at the stranger. The man smiled at him and bent down to give him a dog treat from the bowl on the kitchen cabinet. Without hesitation, the dog greedily retrieved the biscuit from his hand. The man crouched on the floor beside him and began petting the dog. Buster welcomed the affection of the stranger followed by brisk waggings of his tail.

“Traitor!” she growled at the pup. “Some watchdog, you are! I could have been dead and buried and you’d have slept right through it.” Buster hung his head in shame, all, too, familiar with her reprimands when he had failed to meet her expectations.

“There, madam! What more convincing do you need? I am not a threat and even he knows it.” He continued petting the terrier that moved even closer to the man. “What’s his name?” he went on,”I am a dog person, you know. “

“No, I don’t KNOW a damned thing about you except you’ve broken into my house!” she barked at him.

“His name is Buster,” she added, as an afterthought, shaking her head in the dog’s general direction. “Gave him that name when I got him from a friend of mine seven or eight years ago. Seemed suitable,” she responded, “since that’s what I generally refer to all men as...’Buster’.”

He didn’t doubt it.

She switched on the radio. “Might as well see if we’re gonna get blown to kingdom come tonight.”

“…Spotted just bypassing the community of Coldwell approximately five miles to the East and headed due north toward the Red River. It would appear that the three smaller tornadoes spotted earlier tonight have now converged into one large tornado, which is believed to be at least an F4, and possibly, an F5 in strength. Take immediate shelter and stay tuned to this station for further bulletins concerning…” She turned the radio off and began filling a thermos jug with coffee.

“What should we do?” he queried her for guidance, while he looked anxiously around the room. The dated Felix the Cat clock hung smiling on the kitchen wall, its tale swishing back and forth, marking the earliness of the hour.

“Nothing anyone can do about twisters; they have a mind of their own. Anyway, it’s probably still at least an hour from us. Nothing we can do except get down in the cellar when the time is right. And believe you me,” she preached,” you’ll damned well know when the time IS right. In the meantime, we’d better hit that fridge and see what we can find to chow down on while we’re down there. Might as well not go empty handed,” she said.

“Down there?” he asked, bewildered.

“Yes, down there – down there in the storm cellar,” she said motioning toward the long hallway. She snatched a wicker clothes basket from beside the back door and began filling it with an assortment of items: a thermos jug of coffee, a loaf of bread, some coffee mugs, sugar, creamer, peanut butter crackers, Oreos, glasses, some paper plates, and a new bottle of Johnny Walker Red she had secreted away in the pantry.

“Guess you wanna to be in charge of the cutlery,” she sneered at him, opening the utensil drawer in front of her and waiting for him to choose which of it they would take with them.

“If you don’t mind, yes!” he responded, reaching for a couple of table knives and forks. She smirked, as if she were privy to some private joke, while she held the basket open for him to drop in the utensils. His hands shook slightly at the thought of an approaching tornado.

“Pull that smoked ham outta the fridge over there, three of four of those Dr. Peppers, some cheese and mustard, those deviled eggs, and anything else you see that appeals to you. We’re apt to be down there a while. Maybe get some of those cold biscuits and strawberry preserves, too,” she added, as a postscript. “Those’ll do nicely for breakfast if it comes to that. I’ll get the flashlight and extra batteries.” He kept a vigilant eye on her as she rummaged through the pantry.

Like an obedient child, he did as he was told. Hunger pangs gnawed at him remembering how long it had been since he had last eaten. Finally, she grabbed a roll of paper towels off the rack and a hand full of Milk Bones, and stuffed them into the basket. “Can’t forget our guard dog here, can we?” she said motioning to the drooling Buster whose tail now wagged at a faster pace.

“That oughta hold us. A feast fit for a king, OR a convict,” she reasoned, arching a judgmental eyebrow in his direction. Her sarcasm did not go unheeded.

“One more thing,” she suggested, scrutinizing him over the top of her glasses. “…guess you’re gonna need some dry clothes before I get stuck down there in that cellar with you. Otherwise,” she said, turning up her nose, “…you’ll probably start to get a little rank after a while. Come with me and bring that basket of food!” she ordered and started down the long hallway toward the other end of the house.

He paused briefly in front of the bathroom on his right, as they made their way down the hall. He had never seen a claw foot tub like that one in his life. It was huge. He peered around the corner into the room, noting that she was in the habit of pampering herself, as was evident by the bevy of brilliantly colored bottles of lotions and oils that lined the shelves above the bath. He almost envied what it would be like to relax one’s troubles away in a tranquil soak such as that. He moved on following the clack, clack, clack of Buster’s paws, as he dogged each of Arden’s steps.

“This was Paw’s room,” she said, opening a door on her left. “Some of his old clothes are still here in the closet. They ought to fit you. You look like you’re about the same size.” The scent of mothballs lingered in the air; as she threw open the closet doors. He realized it had probably been years since she had ventured into this room.

“Don’t come in here much anymore. No need to. Have everything else I need in the rest of the house,” she seemed almost apologetic. Switching on the light in the closet, she began thumbing through the collection of clothing. “Here, this ought to do for you. Try this on,” she said shoving a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a pair of well worn boots at him.

He stood, holding the clothing, trying to solve the dilemma of how he was going to change into dry clothes without letting her out of his sight.

She sensed his plight. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ve seen a man before. Here, I’ll turn my back while you change. First, get you some underwear and socks out of that top drawer in that bureau over there by the door.”

He breathed a sigh of exasperation. “You’re quite adept at giving out orders, aren’t you, madam, er uh, what did you say your name was anyway?”

“I didn’t say,” she snarled, “but it’s Arden, Arden Hunter,” she spun around to face him, a man’s leather belt in her hand. “Most folks hereabouts know me. Sorry I can’t say the same for you. What IS your name anyway…just in case I ever wanna watch out for you on one of those Most Wanted television shows, or something?”

He grimaced at her snide endeavor at humor. “Easton…Easton James Mosley…the third,” he added, pride fully.

“Quite a handle for a convict.” Her tone was laced with derision. “Go on with you now. Get those clothes changed. We don’t have time to stand around here jawing all night,” she said, turning her back to stare out the bedroom window into the turbulent night.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. He feared this woman might ultimately be the death of him.

Chapter 4.

Mentally, she made a checklist of what else they might need that she had not previously stored in the cellar during the numerous other nights she had tolerantly waited out a storm such as this on the old rollaway bed. Flashlights, candles, portable radio, change of clothes, First Aid Kit, the dog food for Buster, and plenty of water. She was well-prepared after years of living in the middle of nowhere with no one for company at night but Buster, whose only fear to strangers was that he might lick them to death.

She had two part-time ranch hands that she now wished lived on the place. They came only a couple of days each week to help her out. Buck and Joey, his son, tended the livestock and completed any chores she’d requested in the note she traditionally left for them on the barn door. It was all that the place needed, an occasional touch of a man’s hand. She rose long before dawn to handle the rest and she had the calluses to prove it.

Genevieve came twice a week to give the house a good cleaning, do the laundry, and prepare several meals that would effortlessly get her through the week. Arden had no time for woman’s work – she had more important tasks to undertake that demanded far more of both her time and her energy. She reflected now, more than ever, on how grateful she felt for their devotion these past years, while she silently wondered if she would ever see them again.

Still carrying the basket of supplies, Easton followed her back down the hall and into the kitchen. She grabbed a pair of plaid, flannel pajama pants from the hook on the bedroom door and slipped them effortlessly on. She padded to the back door and peered out into the night through the screen door in an effort to anticipate the strength of the storm. Intermittent flashes of lightening in the distance offered an occasional glimpse of the inhospitable clouds that shifted restlessly overhead. The exhausted windmill churned and groaned at the increase in wind speed. A few of the chickens scattered and squawked in confusion out in the yard sensing the onset of danger.

“Better make one last check out there. Make sure all the doors and animals are locked up tight. You coming with me, or are you afraid of a little tornado,” she said, pushing her way through the back door, flashlight in hand.

“I bet she never lets up!” he thought to himself, now well acquainted with that biting sarcasm of hers. “I’ll bet she just never lets up.”

“Is the cellar out here somewhere?” he quizzed, scouring the area as far as he could see in the darkness.

“Nope, under the house. Runs almost the full length of the place. More like a basement than anything. My Paw thought of it when they first built the place. Said early pioneers used to do that – build cellars under their houses. Hid out from the Indians in the old days down there when there were still raiding parties that’d sooner scalp you as look at you. He supposed that since we spent most of our time hiding out from storms nowadays we might as well be comfortable down there.”

She trotted off at a brisk pace toward the barn, with Easton following close behind, before proceeding with her tale. “Mostly it’s used for storage now, that cellar, but it’s served us well on many a stormy night.”

She and Buster turned their attention to herding the frenzied chickens and shooing them into the coop before snapping the door shut behind them.

“Yeah, “ she began rambling on, “there’s a trap door, there in the floor in the hall that leads directly down into it. I called it ‘The Catacombs’ when I was a kid and studied about them in school. Paw didn’t think that any too, funny, especially since he didn’t know what that was. Yeah, snug as a bug in a rug, that’s what we’ll be. Nothing can get at us there, except for maybe the house collapsing on top of us.”

“Perish the thought,” he quivered, at the mention of it.

“The horses are nervous. They can sense what’s coming.” she cautioned him, striding toward the worried faces that peered out from their stalls. “No need to fret yourself, boys and girls,” she soothed. “You’ve been through this many times before and we’ve always weathered the storms. Now you just hang loose in there,” she coaxed, stroking one of the mares lovingly along the side of her neck, while the others watched the stranger guardedly.

“Oh, it’s all right,” she soothed the horses, “I don’t figure him for a horse thief,” she said, and motioned for the man to come forward. “Try Milo there...so named after the strongman Milo of Croton. He was an ancient Greek athlete, you know, reputed to have carried a bull on his shoulders by practicing daily since it was a calf. He’s strong, but he’s gentle. Just walk up to him slowly, stick out your hand there and let him smell you.”

He inched forward to the steed, extending his hand.

“Animals are much better judges of people than we are,” she coached him. “They know in a heartbeat who bears an ill will and who doesn’t.”

Easton knew his reluctance to offer his hand was not because the horse had anything to fear from him. He only prayed the horse knew it.

“See there! I told ya. He’s taken a shine to you,” she said. “I knew I could count on Milo to tell me whether or not you’re a real hard case. Here, give him this,” she said, tossing him an apple from a basket resting just outside the stalls. Milo inhaled the apple in one hearty gulp and began munching it blissfully. The man stole closer to the steed, running his hand along the course of neck and over his shoulders. He stood in awe of his strength, his grace, his muscularity.

“I’ve never been this close to a horse before,” he muttered. “I’m more of a city boy,” he said. “He’s magnificent.”

“He’s old now,” she told him. “But you should have seen him in his day. He was a real stud. Ranchers would come from all around to breed their mares to Milo. Yeah, he had himself quite a time in his day, didn’t you, Milo old boy?” The horse nodded and whinnied in her direction, as if in agreement.

The hum of the windmill grew more irritable outside, as the thunder intensified and the heavy droplets of rain became more plentiful. She snapped to attention and began checking the latches on the stall doors once again.

“Fraid that’s all I can do for you tonight, folks, but you’ll be fine. Always have been, always will be,” she reassured them, giving one of the mares one last slap on the rump. She had done her best to convey a confident tone by her words. Now, she could only pray, once again, she was right.

Chapter 5.

The screen door of the house flapped feebly in the wind, as they emerged from the barn, and what few mesquite trees there were flailed vulnerably against the night that was ridden with the overpowering fragrance of Sassafras. She looked out, long and hard, into the festering storm. One could almost see the tension beginning to build in her shoulders. Her chenille robe flailed wildly in the wind. She knew it wouldn’t be long now.

“What do they call you?” she asked, as they made their way back to the house. “Surely to God, not ‘Easton.’”

“No,” he laughed.

“Not Easton. To my friends and family, I am just ‘E.’”

“Much better than Easton. Much more laid back. That’s a handle a body could live with. ‘E.’”…she rolled it off her tongue, as if in approval.

“And do they call you ‘Arden’ or did you have some other nickname as a child?”

“Just Arden, though when I was growing up in these parts, as a wild and wooly tomboy, the fellas mostly referred to me as ‘Bitch’ cause I refused to take any guff off of them. Fine with me though. The more afraid they were of me, the better I liked it.”

“So, you like having men afraid of you?” he smiled. “And, are they all still afraid of you?” he teased.

She stopped in mid stride and whirled around to confront him.

“YES, they are,” she replied, her eyes black with rage, “and I intend to keep it that way!”

She turned and started jogging toward the house.

“Better get going,” she ordered. “We don’t have all night to stand around out here jawing about the past if you want to live to see your future. That is, if you even have a future,” she snapped over her shoulder. She had made certain this interloper felt sufficiently chastised for his comments about her attitude toward the opposite sex.

Lunging through the back door, she let it slam deliberately in his face, as he trailed closely behind her.

“What can I say?” Easton asked, by way of apology, while she angrily banged through cabinets and drawers piling more staples into their basket of supplies. “I didn’t mean it insultingly. I was only joking.”

“Nothing, sir!” she said, as she petulantly whirled around to face him. “I don’t think there’s a damned thing you can say that going to make me feel any better at all about this entire situation. As a matter of fact, I think you’ve done, and SAID, quite enough for one night.”

She paused before going on, “You’ve invaded my space, taken over my home, and presumed to know everything there is to know about me in a very short span of time. I’d say, yes, you’ve done quite enough.”

She turned her back to him and leaned forward over the kitchen sink. Suddenly, she struggled to catch several short breaths and regain her composure. She kept her face turned away from him, so he might not see, so he might not witness the agony she felt at remembering a past that had embittered her so.

“My sincerest apologies, madam. What I said…it was only in jest. I meant no disrespect.”

Having regained her composure, she stretched herself up to the fullness of her height, grabbed the basket full of stores, and started down the hallway.

“I’ve got to check the radar,” she called back to him, as she headed toward the living room. He took full notice of the intense red and yellow patterns of images that floated across the radar on the television screen when she switched on the set in the living room.

A massive downpour of hailstones began pummeling the tin roof in a thunderous roar that echoed through the ceiling, as if thousands of stones were being hurled against the roof. Buster crowded into the room, shaking and whining with worry.

She knelt down to stroke him, “It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right, Buster Man,” she soothed, while she calculated the path of the twister that she knew would soon be bearing down on them.

“For the love of all that is holy, what is that?” he asked, shivering.

“Just a little bit of hail. Not afraid of a little hail, are you?” She rose laboriously from her crouched position on the floor and switched off the television.

“Get your ass in gear!” Arden called out to him from the hall, as he lagged behind carrying the basket full of stores.

“Bring that basket and follow me.” She was moving now at a faster clip, Buster closely at her heels, and a Coleman lamp swinging precariously from her arm. In one swift jerk, she snatched the threadbare rug from the hall floor to reveal a massive, wooden door. Bending down, she grasped the iron brace at the side and began tugging at it.

“Well, don’t just stand there like an ignoramus.” She looked up at him. “Help me, help me…get a hold of it. The damned thing’s heavy, can’t you see?”

The man would never fathom how any one woman could be so contemptuously rude in one breath, while simultaneously asking for his help in the next. Nor, could he hope to understand how she would have ever been able to open that door without him, yet he knew that she would have.

Buster raced down the stairs ahead of them, eager to be where he had obviously safely been sheltered before. She made her way down after him, edging warily along the stairs until she felt the light switch on the wall. Light sprang from below.

“Okay, I’ve got it now,” she called out.

He stood peering into the gaping hole awaiting further instructions.

“Hand me down the basket, and then get yourself in here,” she growled. “Don’t worry about the door. It’s connected to a pulley. We’ll shut it from down here when you get in.”

He wasted no time passing her the basket and descending the stairs.

“Blasted old thing,” she hurled in the door’s general direction. “Big as Miz Brown’s ass and twice as hard to control. That’s what Paw used to say.” She began churning the pulley handle before his feet had hit the floor. Together, they had made quick work of it.

“Now, let’s you get one of those other Coleman lanterns over there and fire it up before the electricity goes off. There’s a couple of Bic lighters beside ‘em. No need to wait till the electricity goes completely out to start fumbling around in the dark trying to shed some light on the place. I’ll fire up this other Coleman while you pour us a nip of Scotch, and we’ll be good to go.”

“You’ve done this before, I take it,” he volunteered matter-of-factly.

“A few hundred times,” she smiled, knowing that her experience in such matters now gave her the upper hand in this state of affairs. “We’ve got more Colemans down here if we need em. No telling yet how long we’ll be stuck here.”

She stood surveying their quarters. “There’s a bathroom and bedroom down there at that other end,” she said motioning, “…a fully stocked kitchen, a pantry full of canned food, a freezer chocked full, a toaster oven, a microwave, a generator in case the electricity goes, and almost anything else you can think of.”

She retrieved a portable radio from a shelf and set a chipped coffee mug full of extra batteries beside it. While she fiddled with the radio stations, tuning to this one and that, he assessed their crypt.

Their tomb was larger than he’d envisioned and it smelled of pickling spice and cinnamon. Outdated travel posters hung haphazardly on one wall and row after row of wooden shelves lined the room carefully guarding their precious stockpile of canned vegetables, jellies and jams. Peculiarly, the bottom row of shelves was filled completely with old Folgers coffee cans.

“What is all that?” Easton motioned toward the shelves.

“Lots of stuff,” Arden boasted, as she neared the shelving. “Preserves of all kind, peach, apricot, plum, apple, grape, pickles and pickled okra so hot it’ll melt the enamel right off your teeth. There’s also green beans, peas, corn, spiced apples, peaches and my mother’s famous Chow Chow.”

She fingered the jars, gingerly, beaming with pride for her efforts. “All generous byproducts of a hard worked garden. All kinds of good stuff,” she went on. “Why there’s enough food down here to feed an army for a month. Especially,” she countered, motioning toward a bent up old freezer shoved far back in the corner, “if you count Mama’s old Amana there. Yep, she’s been feeding this family for at least 20 years now. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

“What about all of those old coffee cans?” he asked, motioning in their direction. “Is that all coffee?”

“Oh, those?” she hesitated. “Don’t you worry about those. They’re empty, just saving those for additional storage in case I ever need em.” She began fidgeting and turned away from his gaze.

“I’m amazed,” he shook his head. “I had no idea. Why you have a whole store of supplies down here. Who would have ever guessed there was such a wealth hidden right here under your feet?”

She watched him more warily at the mention of possible wealth. “Yeah, sure. Lots of staples down here, and it’s taken a lot of time and effort to amass it all,” she added, apprehensively looking around the room.

Finally, the lilt of smooth jazz drifting from the radio filled the room, as she settled on a radio station of her choosing.

“Is that Grover Washington I’m hearing?” he queried.

“One and the same.” She held out the bottle of Johnny Walker Red to him, while she searched the basket for glasses. “I’m a smooth jazz enthusiast myself. Love me some Grover Washington. He was a fantastic musician…and hung with some of the best…Herb Alpert, George Benson, Chuck Mangione. Here,” she said, retrieving a stack of faded old LP’s from the floor. “Here’s the original album that song is on. It’s called ‘Winelight’ great, great album.”

He smiled down at her sitting on the floor thumbing through the old albums reminiscent of a youth spent alone in her room enraptured by musicians who were greats long before anyone even realized it.

“Well, I will be damned,” he shrugged. “I can’t picture that…You being a jazz enthusiast. I pictured you more of a country and western kind of gal.”

She smiled coquettishly at him, “Oh, yeah? You’re being kinda racist aren’t you? Can’t picture a little country white bread girl having an appreciation of the jazz greats?”

He stared down at the floor with a half smile. “Yes, guilty as charged. I guess I was.”

“No country and western for me. I don’t have a pickup truck or a broken heart, so I have no need of that crap. I could listen to good jazz for hours, and when I’m not listening to that, I’m listening to Latin Jazz.”

Arden tendered a smile up at him and paused in thought. “It just goes to show…we ALL have preconceived notions of what someone else is really like without ever even knowing them regardless of their color or sex, don’t we? We’re all hypocrites. We’re all judgmental. Those traits aren’t reserved for any particular color or gender.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, I’m afraid that you’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” she went on. “You think, as a woman, I haven’t faced prejudices. That my female ancestors didn’t also struggle for their freedoms, too?”

“But it’s not the same,” he quickly responded. “You weren’t ripped from your family and forced to come to this country as a slave.”

“I know. I realize it’s not the same. But the point I’m trying to make is that we all have our own set of prejudices instilled in us by our ancestors and past life experiences. You have yours and I have mine. Shouldn’t the goal be to get past those prejudices and just listen to each other, so that we can find some common ground of understanding?”

They both sat in silence, mulling over the other’s words, while downing generous sips of the Scotch.

“It’s simple…really, when you put any sort of racism into its proper perspective. We just have to listen to each other and treat each other with mutual respect,” she went on.

Carefully, she reshelved the old albums, dusting them off first with the hem of her robe. “I don’t judge people by their color or race. I judge them by their actions. Of course, I can’t tolerate rude behavior…all that rioting and looting that those young people are doing these days. That doesn’t solve anything. If they’re ever going to achieve anything or have any credibility at all, they have to make their voices known in a peaceful manner. Destroying someone else’s property is no way to protest with any credibility.”

A smile passed over his face. “I think it was Oliver Wendell Holmes who said ‘The right to swing my fist ends where the other man’s nose begins.’”

“Well said!” she concurred. “That’s all we need to remember….mutual respect of the other guy’s nose!”

They both laughed out loud.

She gulped down a hearty sip of Scotch. “Damn, that’s smooth! There’s ice in the deep freeze over there if you want it. Better enjoy it while you can, while the lights are still on. That old generator is over there somewhere,” she paused, searchingly, “but I don’t know for sure how long it’ll run any more. Like everything else around here, it’s seen better days.”

“Have you always enjoyed your Scotch without ice? I mean, it seems like most people feel the need to mix it with water or soda, or almost anything else that dilutes the taste.” He queried.

“I like a splash of soda now and then,” she said “…gives it a little kick to get it started.” She began rubbing her jaw. “Got a toothache once,” she went on, settling in a weary recliner that had been frequently patched with duct tape. “Got it at harvest time. It was a bitch of one. We knew I couldn’t be spared for a trip to the nearest dentist who was days away. My old man brought me up here to the house and down to the cellar where he kept his secret stash of Scotch hidden from Mama. I was a teenager then. ‘Here, he said, take a big old swig of this. Roll it around in your mouth, swish it right through that blasted tooth that’s a fussin’ at ya and give him something else to ponder on.’ Well, damned if it didn’t work. At least, after a couple more swigs it did. And I’ve downed it straight with a splash of soda ever since. At least one before bedtime every night for more years than I care to say. Liquid gold, it is,” she said holding her swirling glass up to the light.

Little by little the ceiling above them began to vibrate. The intensity grew until the rafters above them creaked and moaned, as if a great weight had been suddenly imposed upon them. A thin veil of dust frequently rained down on them as the thunder boomed above. Buster buried his head under the ragged quilt in his box and covered his ears with his paws. He knew what was coming.

“Well,” Arden speculated, looking aloft while offering a toast to the night, “as Bette Davis once said: ‘Fasten your seat belts, boys, it's going to be a bumpy ride!’”

Chapter 6.

Compared to Arden, Easton realized that at least, in some respects, he had led a sheltered life, while in others, he had not. She had, through the years, developed a hard shell, but she seemed to be wise well beyond her age. He realized her toughness was developed out of need, much as his own had been, while learning to survive in prison. Each of them had learned to cope with their own consequences of worldly intimidation in one way or another.

Easton had struggled most of his adolescence just to free himself from the jaws of New York mediocrity and to acquire an education, and now it seemed, it was all for naught. After his tenth year in prison, he had been made Prison Librarian, which was of some consolation. His love of books and teaching classes in literacy and practical accounting had filled the remainder of many otherwise empty hours. He had learned that staying busy made the days run together after a while, so that there was little time for worrying about those things he could not change.

Considering the circumstances of his case, the Judge had passed a compassionate sentence of 15 years, but the attorney had counseled that he might serve less for good behavior. He had fought against using “Temporary Insanity” as a defense, but had finally realized that was all that had saved him from the death penalty. He knew he should feel grateful, considering the graveness of his crime, but he had refused to embrace the forgiveness that would allow him to do so. He was still eons away from that.

Another light blanket of dust drifted down on them from the rafters above, as the vibration of the storm intensified. Easton’s eyes grew wide in terror. “You know, they’ve had tornado warnings out there at the prison, but none actually ever touched down near us, and even if they had, I think I’d have felt much safer there behind those concrete walls than sitting helplessly here beneath a house.”

She watched him, somewhat amused by his fear. “Here, have another swig of courage,” Arden offered, extending the bottle to him. “It’ll take the edge off.”

“I only wish that were possible,” he said, taking the bottle willingly.

“Better have a bite or two of this ham,” she said, reaching into the basket to remove some of the stores they had brought with them. “You’re looking a little peeked.” She set to work piling a plate high with ham, deviled eggs, potato salad and various other delicacies.

“I’m not really hungry now,” he responded. “Funny, a while ago I was famished, but I seem to have lost my appetite.”

“No matter,” she pushed a plate of food toward him, “…eat something anyway. You’ll need your stamina for later and it’ll help soak up some of that Scotch.”

His shoulders sagged, as he took the plate and pulled up an old milking stool beside her.

A few bites into the feast, he was eating with gusto. This sumptuous banquet was a world away from the prison fare he had become accustomed to.

“You’re right,” he looked at her, briefly in between bites of food, “a meal fit for a king.”

“That’s Genevieve’s work. She comes out and cooks and cleans for me a couple of times a week while I take care of the ranch. She’s a jewel. I couldn’t make it without her and the boys,” she sighed, popping a deviled egg in her mouth.

“The boys?” He stopped in mid bite. “Who are the boys?”

She observed the look of apprehension in his eyes. “The boys?” she said, “Why they’re my hands. They generally come out three days a week and help me around the place.”

“They don’t live on the ranch?”

She debated for a few seconds whether or not to tell him the truth, but finally reasoned it would be useless to try and convince him there was any assistance close at hand.

“Buck and his son, Joey,” she explained. “They live about ten miles from here. They have their own place. Not nearly as big as my own, not as demanding. So, they come over and work for me off and on during the week to make extra money.

She poured more of the whisky into their glasses, and dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin.

The pulsating rhythm of hail began again, more pronounced than before, echoing across the walls of the basement.

Easton stared at the ceiling in disbelief.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” she said, following his gaze. “I only hope the animals are all safe.”

He continued staring at the ceiling. “Is that the tornado I’m hearing?”

“Oh, no, that’s just more hail, and I’d say from the sound of it, about as big as golf balls.” She paused, listening, while a somber look stole across her face. “And that won’t hold a candle to the actual tornado if it decides to bless us with its presence,” she said.

The hail stopped abruptly and a dead stillness fell over the room. He breathed a welcoming sigh of relief.

“Don’t get too, comfortable,” she grinned. “Ever heard of the calm before the storm?”

The mask of easiness melted from his face. “You mean there’s more?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see about that, but usually when it gets real still like that, it just means the worst is yet to come.”

They both sat in silence, watching the ceiling, as if expecting the hand of God to descend and pummel them into submission.

Chapter 7.

“What brought you here?” she broke the silence.

He shook his head, as if warding off some bad dream, and turned his attentions to her. “You mean to your house?”

“No, hell no!” she quizzed him. “I mean why were you sent to prison and how did you escape?”

She moved over to the old couch in the corner and stretched out her legs, as if waiting to sit in judgment of his life story.

“Well, I think that’s hardly relevant now, considering we’re possibly going to meet our maker at any time, according to you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” she sneered. “Anyway, right now all we have is time and there’ll be plenty of that for the telling of your story if I know tornadoes at all, and you can believe me when I say I do.”

The overhead light flickered and then plunged the room into darkness. She moved one of the Coleman lanterns closer to them, so she might see his face more clearly.

Easton poured himself another glass of Scotch, took a deep breath, and eased himself into the tattered recliner. Buster still cowered in his box in the corner, waiting for something greater to descend upon them.

“Well, as to how I escaped, that is a secret that will go with me to my grave. And as for my crime - the plea was ‘Temporary Insanity’; at least that’s what my attorneys called it when I was charged with murder.” He pushed out the footrest on the chair and took a deeper drink of Scotch. “I don’t know that I ever agreed with that, but for my wife’s sake I went along with it.”

“Start at the beginning,” Arden interrupted. “For now, time is one thing that we both have plenty of.”

His shoulders sagged, and his head bowed for a moment, as if the telling of the tale had placed a heavy burden upon him.

“I grew up in New York,” he began, “born and educated there. I was from a moderate income family there with a strong background of educators. My personal interests lay more in the art world. I wanted to be a painter. My father and mother wouldn’t hear of it. Not many thriving black artists in those days, they said, so I did as I was told,” he said looking her straight in the eye, “which is more than what most young people do today,” he added.

“Amen to that, brother!” she acknowledged. “At least we’re in agreement on that point.” She poured them another short helping of Scotch, as she popped another deviled egg into her mouth. “Go on,” she instructed.

“Ok, ok. I went on to earn a Master’s Degree in Finance. Started with a good position in the Hamilton Bank Group, and married my college sweetheart, Elizabeth Woodruff Manning. Elizabeth was, and still is, the most beautiful human being I’ve ever known… inside and out. She was also urged into the banking business by her family, but she is, and always has been a sculptor at heart. Some of the best galleries in New York and Europe have featured some of her works,” he paused, and with an air of pride in his voice said: “I’ll say this for her - she refused to give up on her dream.”

“I’m sure you’d be surprised to know that I too am an avid art lover,” she interrupted, pulling a couple of dusty old books from a nearby shelf. “While my major was Animal Husbandry, I took several courses in Art History and have visited numerous galleries all over the world thanks to the Internet.” She passed one of the art books, The History of Art by Anthony F. Janson, over to him for examination. “That’s my lifeline,” she said. “The Internet! Don’t know what I’d do without it. Stuck out here in the middle of the sticks, working most of my life like I have toward one goal or another, I never really got the time to devote to some of the more cultural aspects of life.” She began thumbing through the dog-eared pages of the book now resting on her lap.

He watched her, dumbfounded that she had so easily changed her train of thought from the perilous circumstances in which they now found themselves and her insistence that he pour out his life story to her.

“Do you want me to tell this story, or not?” Easton asked, insulted.

“Oh, yes, yes, go on,” she putting the book aside apologetically and turned back in his direction.

“Did I tell you that Elizabeth was Caucasian?”

“Holy shit!” she looked at him somewhat taken aback. “No, I don’t think you mentioned that little detail.”

She pulled the old afghan up to her chin, before adding: “Well, I guess that opened a whole new kettle of fish up for you, didn’t it?”

“It certainly did,” he said “but it was not one we weren’t prepared to meet head on.” He shuffled his position and went on with his story. “Ah yes, the reason I was in prison – the charge against me was murder,” he said, studying her expression again for any trace of fear. “I shot and killed a young man in open court in front of numerous witnesses.”

He paused. “Of course, those were the days long ago before people were screened for weapons when entering a courtroom,” he added as an afterthought.

“Good God!” she said. “I never would have guessed - an educated man like you? Embezzlement maybe, I might have guessed, but never murder. Well, well, go on,” she sat up more fascinated…her curiosity now getting the better of her. “Tell me. Tell me the rest!”

“You would have had to know my daughter to understand - Celeste,” he spoke her name, as if uttering a prayer. “She was a beautiful child, a raven haired beauty, with huge brown eyes that could pierce a man’s soul. She was a true innocent. We suspected early on that she was slower than other children her age and by age five several doctors confirmed that she suffered from an intellectual disability, or as the layman calls it ‘mild retardation.’ From all outward appearances she was a normal functioning teenager when she was taken from us. She loved shopping, talking on the phone with her friends, playing games, helping around the house, but there was one huge difference in Celeste and other teenage girls…she was totally trusting of anyone. She believed everything anyone told her. She was what you might call ‘a perfect innocent’ when she was killed.”

“What a shame,” the woman consoled. “What a damned shame.”

“Oh, she managed to keep up in school with the help of tutors. We watched her, constantly” he went on, “seldom took our eyes off her…always knew when she would be home, where she was going, who she was with, or so we thought. What we hadn’t counted on was just how really gullible she really was with other people.” He paused before going on “I have to add that Celeste was a really beautiful young girl, not just simply in her looks and her manner. She had a Shine about her! Something that immediately caught anyone’s eye who looked at her, something that made you want to get closer to her, get to know her, experience what it was like to be a part of her life.”

“The man in the courtroom…the one you shot?” she interrupted…”Did he hurt her? Is that it?” She was anxious for his story to proceed at a faster pace now.

“Bear with me now,” he urged. “We lived in Houston then. I had taken a position as a Vice President of a local bank there.” He inhaled a labored breath. “I’ll make it as brief as possible. She went to a private school and insisted on walking home every day from school with a friend with whom we knew she’d be safe. At the first sign of any problem, the friend was to call and my wife would hurry over and pick both girls up and see them home safely. Celeste was still bright enough that she wanted some form of independence, and so, as to maintain her dignity, we acquiesced in that regard.”

Arden examined the remains of the Scotch and poured another shot into their glasses, sensing he needed some liquid courage to finish his story.

He drank willingly, letting the amber liquid linger on his palate before its warmth trickled down the rising tightness in his throat.

“The friend hadn’t told us about the young man who followed them in his new convertible several times a week, catcalling at the girls, and in particular at Celeste who was the more attractive of the two. He was a student at their school, so the girls were vaguely familiar with who he was. He urged them repeatedly to let him give them a ride home. Both girls had been warned repeatedly never to accept a ride with strangers, but they felt they knew the boy from school, knew he came from a good family, so they didn’t really consider him a stranger. Besides, Celeste never really understood the meaning of the word ‘Fear.’ In her innocence, she could not see any evil in anything or anyone. Her friend, Grace; however, was not so gullible, but at Celeste’s urging, she had agreed not to betray Celeste’s flirtations with the young man to us.”

He paused, taking a deep breath and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

For once, Arden did not speak and waited for the man to collect his thoughts.

“It seems they had taken a ride home with him several times before; him dropping them off a block from home, so no one would be the wiser. All had gone well, or so Celeste had told her friend. They would drop Grace off at home and then Celeste and the young man proceeded to a nearby park for a little bit of light petting. Celeste had been jubilant at the thought of having a boyfriend, even though she had no idea of what sustaining a male/female relationship entailed. She had the emotions of a six year old child locked inside the body of a grown woman.”

Buster interrupted the main’s train of thought by jumping up in the woman’s lap. “Go on. Go on,” she urged.

“Celeste’s friend, Grace, hadn’t gone to school that day. She was ill, and her mother, in her urgency to get her daughter to a doctor with what she thought was a case of appendicitis, had forgotten to call my wife and tell her she needed to pick Celeste up after school that day. Again, Celeste accepted a ride willingly from the young man.”

The man paused, again, noticeably perspiring heavier. “She didn’t survive that day. We will never really know all that happened.” He broke down in sobs before proceeding.

“All we know is that she was raped and badly beaten within an inch of her life. Someone at the park saw what happened and called in an anonymous report with a license plate number to the police who found her unconscious.” Easton’s eyes narrowed into two thin slits as he uttered: “Ultimately she died…after lying comatose in the hospital for a week.” He glanced around the room as if reliving the tragedy all over again.

“It took forever to get the whole story out of Celeste’s friend, Grace. Understandably, she was afraid, and didn’t want to point an accusing finger, but the diligence of our private investigator finally tracked down the woman who had seen Celeste and the young man struggling together in the park. The witness hadn’t wanted to get involved because of the race aspect of it…you know…a white man with a black girl, so she had turned away, scooped her children up from the park, fled the scene, and phoned in a tip to the police anonymously.

Later, when our private investigator interviewed her, he succeeded in shaming her into testifying. But she was a less than a stellar witness for us at the trial refusing to positively identify the young man, even though she had previously made a positive identification privately to our investigator. The long and the short of it is he got off. A rape kit was completely overlooked by the police due to the severity of Celeste’s injuries and the rush to get her to the emergency room, so no specimen evidence was ever taken.”

Easton rose from the chair and began pacing restlessly around the room. “He was 18 years old with no prior criminal record and from an affluent Houston family who carried a lot of weight in that town. Ultimately, they bought the best defense money could buy for him.” He stood in silence and looked over at the woman, his eyebrows narrowing, as he said: “Don’t ever let anyone tell you that money doesn’t buy the best justice…because it does!”

”I know that’s right,” she said. “I’ve seen that a few times myself. But why did you kill him in open court right there in front of God and everybody?”

“Rage, clear and simple… RAGE! “ He hands trembled, remembering…”Every day that little son of a bitch sat there in that courtroom smiling, as if he hadn’t a care in the world; as if he knew full well that he would get off. But the day that Judge handed down the verdict of not guilty due to insufficient evidence, and that little bastard turned full around and sneered at us, almost laughing out loud, that was IT for me. Right then and there, I wanted nothing more in the world than to wipe that smug smile off of his face. And that’s exactly what I did – I stood up, aimed, and placed a 45 caliber bullet right between his lying eyes.”

He paused and massaged the back of his neck.

He went on. “Seems like I’ve lived in a daze ever since Celeste died. And all through the trial, I could think of only one thing, and that was that I would stand by and allow him to go scot free. I could not let that little bastard go unpunished and walk smiling out of that courtroom a free man. I came prepared to dole out my own brand of justice and that’s exactly what I did!”

“Well, good for you!” she said, slapping her knee. “The little son of a bitch had it coming, though I can’t say much for your timing.” As an afterthought, she added “You know, you could have just had it done and no one would have ever been the wiser.”

“NO,” he said. “I couldn’t! I had to do it right then, right there. I was so overcome with grief and rage; it was all I could think of from the first time he first sneered in our direction.”

Lines of regret splayed across his brow, “If only I’d thought about what my action would do to my wife, Elizabeth. If only I’d given any thought about anything but revenge, things could have been so much different. And Elizabeth wouldn’t be there in Houston, battling Cancer alone, without me, while I’m here struggling to try and find a way to get back to her in time for us to say our goodbyes.”

Chapter 8.

She was the first to sense the mounting tremor that seemed to come from a distance far removed from where they sat huddled. In seconds, the magnitude intensified like the broadening rings from a colossal stone being skipped across a passive pond.

The liquid trembled in Arden’s glass, as she rose from the couch and moved unhurriedly toward the base of the stairs. She stared up at the ceiling, gripping the stair railing securely, as the heavier trails of dust began to rain down.

“Well, that’s quite a tale,” she sighed, as she reseated herself on the antiquated couch. “Can’t say I much blame you for what you did. I just wish you’d thought it out a little better, then, you might not be in this damnable predicament.” Wistfully, she went on “You know, none of us knows what we’ll do in a given situation until we’re placed in it, but I have to admit, I think I’d probably have done the exact same thing!”

A feeble smile escaped his lips.

“You might as well settle back into that recliner,” she suggested. “You’ll feel less threatened there. It’s where Paw used to ride out these damned things. Looks like we’re in for it,” she mused, staring up warily at the ceiling.

Easton dazedly placed the foot rest into position, and followed her example, propping his legs into a more comfortable position, but his eyes never left the ceiling overhead, as if waiting for it to come crashing down mercilessly upon them.

He had just begun to question how anyone could repeatedly live through something like this without, at the very least, having died from fear, when he first heard the wood gradually being viciously ripped away from the house above them. He felt himself become physically smaller in significance to the force that raucously thrashed above them. The pressure in his ears filled his head with a swelling tightness. He pressed the glass of liquid bravery closer to his chest and inhaled another quick sip.

“Drink up,” she said, smiling, as she raised her glass in toast. “Might as well. If this really is IT, you’ll never feel a thing.”

A colossal bolt of lightning struck overhead and the lights in the basement flickered on and off again. The bobbing glow from the shivering Coleman lanterns flung undulated patterns of light across the walls. Unseen to the pair, hazardous missiles of shattered debris swirled through the voracious wind like enormous bees in frenzied flight above them. The ceiling seemed to almost lift from its beams, and an occasional brilliant light blazed out in the night through the cracks in the ceiling above, as the lines of electricity to the house crackled and ripped from their moorings one by one.

“Oh, my God!” he agonized. “I can’t believe that I have come this far to be blown to kingdom fucking come!”

Her laughter filled the room. “Atta boy, go ahead, let it all out. You might as well. No holding back now! This is what they call one of those moments of truth.” She renewed her laughter, while downing a little more Scotch. “…One of those times, when my Paw once said to me while we were huddled together like this on another stormy night, ‘Know what that ole tornado is saying to us right now? He’s just saying: You’d better give your heart to God, cause your ass belongs to me!’ and then we would just cover our heads and pray like the dickens.”

Easton was still staring in shock at the ceiling, when the roar finally, after what seemed like an eternity, began to subside and a few drops of rain managed to trickle down into the basement.

“We’re not going to drowned down here, like rats, are we,” he pleaded.

“No, no! That’s the aftermath. It’s a good sign…that the worst is over, and” she added, almost as an afterthought, “we’re still alive.”

“You mean we’re not going to die after all?”

“That’s right,” she agreed, with another toast, “…at least not tonight!”

He had absolutely no idea how long it had taken for him to eventually begin to breathe again. He knew it felt like eons. The air of the basement became laced with the purifying bouquet of a spring rain. He held his breath, waiting, doing his best to reassure himself that this violent prodigy of nature was dying as quickly as it had been borne.

They found themselves staring at each other. Simultaneously, they inhaled a relieved breath. She looked more tired than before.

“So, is it really over?” he asked.

She massaged her left shoulder agitatedly. “As far as I can tell, yes.” She gathered her legs under her, and started to rise from the couch. Subtle little lines of strain danced across her face and diminutive droplets of sweat emerged from her forehead.

He echoed concern. “Are you all right?”

She stood up, wavering slightly, her legs wobbling beneath her. She teetered precariously back and forth, as if seeking to find her balance. He watched, puzzled, when she clutched at her left arm, as if trying to snatch some demon from within.

Easton was just beginning to get up when Arden turned to look at him with panic in her eyes. It was an unfamiliar emotion to her…helplessness, fear, loss of control. As he moved to steady her, she clutched at her left breast with one hand and clutched at him with the other desperately dragging them both back, falling further and further until they clumsily collided into the bounteous shelves of jellies and jams that lined the cellar walls.

The shock from the collapse of the shelves was second only in surprise to the plenteous barrage of broken glass and fruit that rained down on them, as they fell feebly to the cellar floor in a jumbled heap.

When he finally recovered from their calamitous fall, he was at a loss to understand the stickiness of their situation. Was it blood? If it was, was it his? Was it hers? And why was there so much of it…everywhere? It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust in the dimness and dust of the room. It was not blood, as he had suspected, but a scattered sprinkling of fruit nectar and minuscule shards of glass from broken jars. She was lying on her back beside him, her face drained of color, her breathing shallow and labored and her eyes dazed in terror. He had seen enough of life to know she was in fear for her life.

The heart attack had come when she least expected it…when she was in her element…brave-faced against that bastardly element of nature that had dared to test her again.

It was just one more boorish reminder that she was human after all. And this time, as she lay there warring with her own helplessness, she couldn’t help but wonder, “Will this be the battle that I finally lose?”

Chapter 9.

Easton knew about battles. He had been fighting them all of his life. First, in the military, where he had served his country proudly as a Lieutenant Commander in the Navy. Next, in his married life where he and his beautiful Elizabeth had fought the racial barriers, as an interracial couple. And finally, in the banking world where he had harnessed all of his energy to ascend up the corporate ladder at as swift a pace as possible. They had been no small tasks, but he had been up to them all.

They had enjoyed his successes, but then, they had paid a price to attain them. The lesson most remembered; however, was the most difficult to endure: “that it could all be taken away in the bat an eye.” He and Elizabeth had both learned that lesson, learned it well. It was one that neither of them would ever forget.

Arden tried to sit up, pushing him away, as he endeavored to help her.

“I’m all right,” she said, throwing her head back and gasping for a fresh breath of air. “Just leave me be. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

“Oh, my God,” he shuddered. “You scared the life out of me.”

“I’m fine, or will be in a minute. Just get me a glass of that Scotch and hand me my purse there on the couch.”

Arden rustled through the purse, he’d retrieved for her, and frantically searched for something until she withdrew a small bottle of pills. She immediately placed one of the pills under her tongue and downed a healthy

swig of Scotch.

“I know what that is,” he said. “Those are Nitro tablets, aren’t they? Do you have a heart condition? Why didn’t you tell me you had a heart condition?” he demanded, pacing the floor and mopping his brow. “And, oh, my God, you’re downing the Nitro with Scotch? Dear God, please tell me I didn’t just see you do that!”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a wad!” she said. “I’ve had a couple of little episodes before, but I survived then, and I’ll survive now.”

She reached out her hand for him to help her up, but he didn’t notice. He was staring with his mouth agape at the floor around her.

She turned her head to see what had commanded his interest. He was staring at the enormity of the hidden cache of money that had spilled out of the coffee cans and was strewn across the cellar floor. Hundreds of bills, tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds lay fanned out amidst the syrupiness of the preserves and jellies that had crashed to the floor when the shelves had collapsed.

She pulled her hand to her forehead, rubbing it, heaving a worn-out groan at the helplessness of her situation. It was the final straw.

“What the hell is all that?” Easton asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Never you mind, mister,” she ordered. “That comes under the heading of ‘My business!” She reached out to him. “I’m in pain here! Just help me up and I’ll take care of all that.”

Finally, he turned his full attention to her and stretched out his arms to help her stand.

She screamed out and fell back to the floor when he tried to pull her up. Tears began tumbling down her cheeks.

“I’ve broken something, something bad,” she said, and reached around to rub the side of her hip. “Damn it to all hell!” she cursed the room.

Buster approached her whining, licking the tears that now ran down her cheek. She pulled him close to her breast and buried her face in the warmth of his neck, cradling him, and began sobbing like a child.

“Here, here, it can’t be all that bad,” he said. “Whatever it is can be fixed,” the man soothed. He glanced around the room for something, anything he could use to help him get her up and off the floor. He seized the mattress from the rollaway bed and threw it on the floor, as near to her as he could and covered it with the quilt that lay folded at the end of the couch.

He stood above her, thinking, searching around the basement for any sort of solution he might find to lift her from the floor with the least amount of pain in the event she had broken something.

His eyes brightened at the prospect of a solution. “Now, I’ve already seen firsthand that you’re tough enough to survive all of this. So what’s going to happen next is something you might really welcome at a time like this,” he said, reassuringly. “I’m going to hypnotize you, so that you feel no more pain…an old parlor trick I learned in the military,” he explained. “Then, I’ll place my hands under your arms and pull you very gently over to this mattress. I promise you will feel no pain, but you have to trust me.”

She winced at the thought of his plan while muttering something about “her money.”

“I swear on all that is holy, I will not touch a cent of your money!” he vowed.

“Yeah, sure,” she snorted. “Get on with it.”

“OK, I can do this. YOU can do this!” he promised. “See, it’s not far. You’ll just take a few deep breaths and when you wake up, it’ll all be over.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she groused.

He ignored her contemptuous tone. “Come on now, Buster,” he called to her protective companion. “Come to me. Come right over here and wait for her on the couch.” He extracted several of the Milk bones from the box in the clothes basket and scattered them at the end of the couch, as an entreaty.

Buster banished all sense of loyalty and scrambled toward the treasure trove that awaited him.

“Here we go,” he said, approaching her, a Coleman lantern in hand. “Do you, by any chance, have any painkillers in that purse stash of yours?”

“I think there might still be an old prescription of Darvon in there from when I had my last migraine.”

“A Godsend at last,” Easton smiled, and reached for the bag. “Although I do not recommend pain killers on top of the scotch you’ve had to drink, I think we’ll make an exception in this case, but no more Scotch for you tonight. You’re hereby restricted to only Dr. Peppers.” He foraged in the basket for the soft drink and handed her one of the pills. “Down the hatch.”

“Whatever you say, doc, but I don’t usually drink and do drugs,” she muttered. “I just hope I don’t turn out to be an alcoholic before this is all over with.”

“Oh please, just shut up and do what you’re told for once in your life.”

“And, where will you and my money be while I’m out like a light?” she demanded.

“Right here, my good woman. Right here in this hell hole with you! Where else on earth could I possibly want to be? Now, just be quiet for once in your life and do as you’re told!” He shook his head at the temerity of the woman. “Now, watch this light,” he told her, as he began moving the Coleman lantern from side to side. “Listen closely to my words and don’t talk any more for God’s sake!”

“Just you don’t be trying any funny stuff,” she slurred. “Keep a close eye on him, Busterman, and don’t let him outta your sight with our loot.” Within minutes, she grew silent and her eyelids fluttered to a reluctant close.

Chapter 10.

She was vaguely conscious of his hands gently tugging on her. She was somewhere else, somewhere between reality and bliss. Somewhere where there was no pain. Somewhere where she dazedly remembered another man’s hands on her. Somewhere, where she felt herself drifting into a memory she had druggedly been compelled to enjoy.

Easton had finally settled her on to the mattress with some effort on his part. She was dead weight, out cold, smiling, slightly intoxicated, and temporarily free from all pain. He covered her with a blanket and sat down on the couch to assess their state of affairs. If the storm really was over, he knew he had to get out and place an urgent call for help for the woman.

Having consumed all of the Milk bones, Buster began sniffing hungrily around the jumble of money, broken glass, and foodstuffs now scattered across the floor.

“Here now, that won’t do!” the man said, picking up the dog and placing him beside Arden. “Stay there!” he warned. Buster looked at him sheepishly and lay down beside the woman obediently.

“I’ll get this cleaned up,” he said, grabbing a broom and dustpan from the corner of the room, along with some old rags. “God, what kind of glorious mess have I gotten myself into now?” he wondered shaking his head. “It just never ends! It just never seems to end.”

The stillness of the night ultimately fell over them like a velvet curtain. Arden slept, while Easton considered their plight. The storm and the Scotch had both exacted their toll on the unwilling inhabitants of the basement tomb. There was nothing but the sound of a steady rain and Arden’s occasional exaggerated snore.

Scant glimpses of a smile played across the countenance of her face, as she slept. It was a face that had once been beautiful, he thought to himself. A face that had once been loved, cherished, desirable.

His thoughts turned to getting the woman medical attention. If the storm was over, he had to get out and get her to a hospital before she had a full scale heart attack. He moved toward the cellar door pulley at the bottom of the stairs. He attempted to turn it, but found it would not budge. He took a deep breath in an attempt to muster all the strength he had. He tried again. The pulley would not move. Cautiously, he made his way up the basement stairs as far as he could go and placed his back against the door. There was no lifting it…they were trapped.

He had been sitting in the old recliner, resigning himself to the fact that he was not going to be able to journey to Houston to see Elizabeth one last time when Arden began to rouse.

“Never look back!” she muttered, several times in her sleep before opening her eyes to see Easton standing over her.

She made a vain attempt to sit up, while asking in an accusatory manner: “My money! What have you done with my money?”

“It’s all there – every penny of it,” he assured her. “There on the table by the couch.” He pointed in the general direction. “I don’t know what you’re worried about. It’s not like I could go anywhere with it. You might as well know,” he went on, “the door is blocked. We’re trapped down here. I’ve tried repeatedly to get the trap door to open, but it will not budge.” He cast an erstwhile glance at the stairs leading up to the house above them before going on. “The storm has evidently been over for hours. God only knows what damage it did.”

“I shudder to think,” she said, her eyes never leaving the stacks of cash, which glistened in the lantern light from a sticky coating of jellies and jams.

“I wiped it off, as best I could,” he apologized, “but I think it’s going to require a thorough laundering before you’ll be able to spend it any time soon.”

“Don’t you worry about it!” she scolded. “It’s mine and I know how to take care of it.”

“Right now, you can’t even take care of yourself,” Easton said, looking at her over the table where the money was piled. “How much would you say you have there?” He scratched his head before offering: “I’d guess at least $50,000, if I were a guessing man.”

He placed two tattered throw pillows behind her head while she strained to sit up.

“What are you doing with all that down here anyway, stuffed in those old coffee cans? Saving for a rainy day? Why in God’s name didn’t you put it in a bank?”

“Never you mind,” she reprimanded. “That’s just my damned business.”

“How’s the pain?” He extended another Dr. Pepper to her in an attempt to change the subject.

“Tolerable, I guess, though I have to confess I haven’t been this plastered since my college days.” She winced as she struggled to straighten her right leg. “I think it’s broken,” she said rubbing her hip. “Oh well, wouldn’t you just know it? If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all?”

He could readily see she was heavily intoxicated now. The combination of the drug and the Scotch had rendered her almost unconscious, but not quite.

“It’s my dream,” she slurred, while motioning toward the money. “The trip of a lifetime…a month in Europe at all the best places. The food, the wine, the scenery…” she stopped in mid-sentence as if trying to collect her thoughts. “You have no idea how long I’ve scrimped and saved for that…the sacrifices I’ve made…what I’ve gone without…how many years it has taken…”

Easton dabbed at a little dribble of saliva that ran down her chin with a paper towel and stifled the smile that he knew would drive her into another stuporous rage.

“Get away from me with that damned thing,” she spat at him. “I can wipe my own damned face and take care of my own damned self just fine.” Her conviction was somewhat overcome when she winced in pain again and began rubbing her hip.

He knew better than to say anything.

“By the way, ole man, any more of those pain pills left?” she asked, her head bobbing like a wounded child.

“I think between the pills, the booze and the tornado tonight, your body has probably encountered enough excitement for one sitting, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for her response before resuming his diagnosis. “From what I can tell,” he went on, “you’ve had a mild heart attack tonight and you’ve broken your hip, as well.”

He hesitated to administer more drugs to her, but thought better of it. After all she had been through that night; she’d probably be better off being totally out of it.

He handed her two Aleve from a bottle he’d found in her purse, which she quickly downed without even looking to see what they were.

“Loose lips sink ship!” she slurred, and raised her Dr. Pepper in a toast.

“If the storm did as much damage as I fear it did, it may be hours before they find us. And even when they do, they’re going to have a hell of a time getting you up those stairs and out of here with that broken hip of yours.” he advised her.

“No worry.” she smiled at him through her drunken stupor. “Right now, I feel like I could float right up and outta here.”

He wasn’t accustomed to seeing her smile. He doubted that anyone was. It was evident she had put that smile on hold for an extended period of time.

“What turned you into such a hard case?” he asked her, without thinking. “What happened that has soured you against the world?”

She looked around the room, as if searching for an answer before snickering out: “Like most women gone bad…some sick, cheating bastard who was a master of deception, that’s what,” she laughed, bizarrely.

“Ok, ok,” he said. “It’s your turn. I’ve laid my soul bare to you and told you what has placed me in my current situation.” He paused, raising a questioning eyebrow in her direction. “Now, since we obviously have nothing else to do, don’t you think you might reciprocate?”

Chapter 11.

Arden babbled on for what seemed like hours, as if a pent up dam had finally broken and released an ancient barrage of hurt and anger. She told him about her marriage, the betrayal, the career she had cast aside to flee from the hurt and the shame. He sat captivated, listening to her recount the tattered rags of her life. And he realized for the first time, they shared a common bond – the desperation, the torment, the grief of losing someone you love.

She had recounted her story to the man, there in that pit of vulnerability. He understood how green she had been when she met the man she referred to as Drake, how inexperienced she had been with all men. She had been so inexperienced with Life, just like Celeste.

Her husband, she said had tenure, as a professor. She had hoped to earn her own tenure in her field of Animal Husbandry and to one day apply what she learned to make a success with her own thriving ranch.

Having been a widower for a year or so, her professor had been ready for a long-term relationship again. He had genuinely missed having someone to come home to, the Sunday cookouts with friends, the weekends at the lake with other couples. He had become accustomed to being a couple. He had become accustomed to being “looked after” and he resigned himself to having that again. Arden had seemed like a reasonable candidate to fill that void.

He had made her want him, she’d said, swept her off her feet with candlelight dinners, bouquets of Lilacs, and weekend getaways to his cottage at the lake. “He knew he was charming,” she’d said. “God only knew, he had practiced it often enough on the available coeds to have honed it to a fine edge.”

As for Arden, she never stood a chance.

They wed six months later in Las Vegas, against her better judgment. Aside from the fact that her instincts told her he was, too, good to be true, there were the girls that troubled her, the female students who inevitably threw themselves at him. They had no shame when it came to pursuing him, and his ego thrived on their attentiveness.

“It’s nothing,” he had ridiculed her, when Arden had mentioned it to him, and pulled her closer in reassurance. He had an alluring manner about him, and he knew it. He was adept at making a woman want him, but hesitant to let one go. He thrived on the attentiveness of the female persuasion like a drug. It was a trait that Arden instinctively feared not to trust.

They had been married for only a year when he began staying later at the university. And when he finally did come in evenings, he immediately showered and then quickly withdrew to their home computer, where he sometimes surfed the Internet into the early morning hours.

The day their American Express Card bill came in the mail, she placed it on the silver tray with the others on the hall armoire. He paid all the bills from their household account. It had not occurred to her to scrutinize the billing statement until she had received the call from American Express regarding a questionable charge. “Dial-A-Date” was the name of the business, they said, and the $800.00 charge on their statement was questionable since it was a known porn site phone number that frequently wrongfully made charges to other customer’s American Express accounts. She had promised to look into the matter and call them back. It was Saturday and Drake was out of town for one of his more frequent weekend seminar lectures.

Her suspicions led her to examine the cell phone bills that she knew he stored in his desk in the den. She labored late into the night scouring the cell phone numbers in the detailed billings. One phone number glared out at her repeatedly from the pages of the bill. Arden called the number, which went directly to the voice mail of a Megan Phillips, one of Drake’s most fervent student admirers. “Hi there, sorry I missed you, but I’ll be out of town all weekend, indisposed, if you know what I mean!” she had recorded, while giggling into the phone.

“I’ll just bet you are!” Arden cringed into the phone and disconnected the call.

She was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of Scotch, debating her next move when she remembered the office computer. It took her less than twenty minutes to figure out that his password was his birth date. It took less time than that for her to find the lengthy list of child pornography websites he had visited daily in the History of the Internet browser. An icy chill ran up the length of her spine upon her realization that he was a pedophile on top of everything else.

The pornographic websites would have been crushing enough, but in his egotism, he had kept the photos on his computer, humiliating photos of numerous underage girls in various states of undress… nude photos that also included Megan Phillips. It was overtly clear to Arden then from all of the emails and late night calls she’d examined, that Megan Phillips and Drake had been spending sporadic weekends together for at least six months, even though Drake had assured her he was lecturing at some significant seminar.

Sitting up in bed, wrapped in her favorite thermal blanket, knees drawn to her chest, she had sat rocking back and forth to keep time with the devastating sobs that racked her body. She had asked herself over and over “How could I have been such a fool?” How could she have loved so deeply that she had been utterly blind to what was going on around her? She was almost as furious with herself as she was with Drake.

She had slept fitfully that night and at dawn, she awoke with a start, remembering the pain of what she had unearthed the night before. Once showered and shampooed, she stood before the bathroom mirror examining her face. The pain of what she had learned showed in the puffiness of her face and she resented it. She resented it like hell. Throughout drying her hair, flossing her teeth, applying her makeup, and finally getting dressed, her resolve grew by the minute…through each step of getting ready to meet the day head on, she knew she was becoming stronger.

“Coffee!” she urged. It would take coffee, lots of coffee, to clear her mind and help her formulate a plan. Her resolve told her that the time for licking her wounds was over. It was time to bring things to an incontrovertible close.

She printed out multiple copies of most of the emails, photos, screen shots of the pornographic history of the browser, the phone bills, and carefully composed a letter addressed to the Dean of the university, which tendered her resignation and outlined Drake’s obsessive interest in child pornography. A copy of the letter would also be delivered by courier to the District Attorney, along with the computer hard drive that same afternoon.

There would be more than a passing interest in a sick, university professor who held sway over a host of naïve young females, while he satisfied his thirst for child pornography.

She spent the other half of the morning having her car serviced for the long drive home and canceling all of their credit cards. Monday morning before Drake was scheduled to return on Tuesday, she had waited on the steps of their bank to remove half of the funds from their joint accounts. She called in the sale of all of her personal stocks and had the funds deposited to the new account which held only her name. She had made certain he was left only with what he was legally entitled to – half of what they had deposited – hardly enough to launch a convincing legal defense for his malevolent transgressions.

She had packed only what she had needed by late afternoon. It was just beginning to get dark when she started to drive away from the house for the last time. She sat parked in front of their house for several minutes looking dotingly at the rich, garden blooms she had lovingly nurtured to life. “Don’t look back,” she told herself as she backed out of the driveway. “Don’t EVER look back!”

“What eventually happened to him?” Easton questioned.

“They arrested him at the university.” She dabbed at her watery eyes with the edge of the quilt. “There was an embarrassing trial, the introduction of all the evidence against him, the loss of his job, his friends, his good name, all flushed down the toilet, just so he could satisfy that ravenous libido of his.” She paused; as if reliving the past had drained her of what little strength she had remaining.

“Is that when you came back here?”

“Yes, my parents weren’t getting any younger and my dad had just found out he was in the early stages of cancer. I just ran as fast as I could…home…where I felt safe…where I felt loved again.”

“That’s understandable,” Easton said. “When the ugly face of pain presents itself, it’s only natural to move as far away from it as we possibly can.”

“I read that he got five years since it was his first offense. Judges frown heavily on having sex with underage girls, you know, especially when you hold the position of an esteemed professor.”

“He’ll be out before you know it, and back at it again, I’m assuming, preying on young girls,” she said. “It’s a sickness, you know? I’ve seen it before when I worked on a volunteer task force that tracked sexual predators on the Internet. Never thought I’d marry one of them though,” she snorted. “Sick bastard!”

He started piecing a ham sandwich together for her, hoping it would absorb some of the alcohol she had imbibed.

“Hey,” she ran together her words: “You didn’t put Scotch in here. You thought I wasn’t watching you, but I saw you just put Dr. Pepper in there,” she said offering up her empty glass.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” He arched a questioning eyebrow in her direction.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,” she said, shaking her glass at him. “Right now, all I need is to drown this pain.”

He reached for what little was left of the Scotch.

“But before I pass out,” she barked, “I need one more thing.”

“And just what might that be?” he said, sparingly trickling the liquid down the side of her glass.

“A promise. A solemn promise. One where I can look in your eyes and know that you’re honor bound to keep it.”

He looked at her quizzically, waiting for her to pronounce her ultimatum.

“THAT YOU WON’T TOUCH MY DAMNED MONEY, ASSHOLE!” she snarled, and fainted dead away.

His laughter echoed off the walls. The old girl still had a generous amount of fight left in her. She would be all right.

Chapter 12.

“When a storm ends there is only the aftermath to deal with. There is always an aftermath following any disaster,” he told himself. “There was always the picking up of the pieces and trying to reassemble them into some sort of meaningful way of life. That was the hard part. The part that drained all your strength and left you questioning whether or not you were up to the task at hand.”

The faint sound of a siren wailed in the distance. It struck a familiar chord. He agonizingly recalled the numerous nights he waited in Celeste’s hospital room, listening to the steady stream of ambulances that conveyed other injured souls to their salvation.

Arden stirred again, her head bobbing in his direction. “Get me another pillow there for my leg,” she ordered, pointing in the direction of the couch. He eased a worn damask throw pillow under her knee.

Buster whimpered and then rose to move to the mattress beside Arden and, sensing she was hurt, began licking her cheek. The woman raised her arm and encircled the dog moving him closer to her.

“You see? I’m still here,” he said, “…and so is your money.” She grinned at him through her drunken stupor, lifting her head slightly to look over in the direction of her exposed cache.

“So you are, my good man,” she acknowledged, and plopped her head back down on the pillows. “And why is that?” she inquired. “Nothing better to do?”

“That’s it! You’re on to me.” He wiped away a bit of spittle that had trickled down her chin again.

“I have no reason to trust you,” she said “now have I?”

“No ma’am, you surely don’t!”

“Then give me one!” she demanded. “Give me one damned reason why I SHOULD trust you.”

He stared down at her, his eyes brimming with amused conciliation.

“Do you find, my good woman,” he asked, “that you have any other logical alternative?”

“Smart ass!” she retaliated, and fainted, again.

There in his trapped surroundings, and with Arden finally silenced, Easton had time to consider the hopelessness of their plight. He had no alternative but to try and find a way he could get medical attention for Arden and still get himself home to the wife he knew was struggling to cling to what little life she had remaining.

Drained from what they had survived in the past few hours, he rose sluggishly and peered up at the trap door at the top of the cellar stairs. That had to be his first order of business – getting that door open and then getting help for Arden.

“I’m a smart man,” he told himself. “There has to be some way for me to move that door,” he muttered to himself, while scanning the cellar around him. He moved through the cellar foraging through boxes and fumbling his way through storage closets optimistically seeking anything he might use for leverage. Finally, he spotted an unopened packing box at the back of one of the closets. “Deluxe Toe Jack – Toolwell Manufacturing” it said. The box had never been opened.

Hastily, he dragged the box from the closet and ripped it open. There, sealed in plastic were the instructions on how to use the apparatus. “If a car could be jacked up to change a tire, why couldn’t I jack that door up at least enough for to squeeze through and clear the debris that is blocking our escape?”

Arden began to stir into consciousness again, as Easton sat on the floor reading the directions on how to use the jack.

“Oh,” she slurred, “I see you’ve found that old jack we never used. Paw used to love to buy tools and gadgets that he never used. Just stored them away ‘just in case’ he always said, while they sat gathering dust and rust somewhere.”

“I’m going to try and use it,” he said motioning to the cellar door. “Can’t hurt, and it just might be able to budge that cellar door, so I can get help to get you out of here and on your way to a hospital.”

“That would be grand,” she smiled, and drifted off again.

His worry was whether or not that the stairs he would have to prop the jack on could bear the weight and the pressure of the lifting. They appeared to be reinforced sturdily enough. Only time would tell. He set himself to the task.

All above them was morbidly silent now. The only sound was the creaking of the stairs as he began to apply pressure on the jack to try and lift the cellar door. He prayed the stairs would hold and not come crashing down on them. In the beginning, the task was arduous, but the higher the door lifted, the easier it became as the debris began to slide off of the door. At last, he managed to make an opening he felt he thought he might squeeze through to get to the outside. Carefully, lest he jar the jack and the door come crashing down on him, he inched his way through the slender opening.

He discovered to his surprise that the old homestead had weathered the storm valiantly. Part of the ceiling and roof had been torn away and a few miscreant rafters and part of the ceiling had been blocking the cellar door. Debris and tree branches were scattered throughout and the walls were soaked by rain and splattered with mud, but the old place would live to breathe again.

For Arden’s sake, he breathed a sigh of relief, and began clearing the rest of the debris from the cellar door.

When he had finished checking the damage to the house, he checked to see if the phone was still working, and then proceeded hastily down the cellar stairs again to check on Arden. She was sitting up with a half smile on her face.

“Well, aren’t you something? I see you finally got that old door open.” she offered.

“It’s the old adage ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way!’” he said, and reached around to pat himself on the back. “I just knew if I could find a way out of prison, I could surely come up with a way to get us out of this damned cellar!”

“You’re the Man!” she boasted. “Oh, yeah, you’re The Man!”

“First order of business is to call for help and get an ambulance out here. Unfortunately, the electricity is out and the phone in the kitchen is dead. I’m guessing I’ll have to walk into the nearest town to get you some help.”

The thought of showing himself in town and being apprehended and returned to prison brought a pall over his face and obliterated his smile.

“I’m just relieved you even came back at all. I was afraid you might hightail it on outta here and leave me in the lurch.”

“Of course, I came back!” he said. “I couldn’t leave you down here like this hurt, and in pain without calling for help. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to walk into town to make that call since the kitchen phone is completely dead.”

“Would a cell phone help?” she asked, mockingly.

“You have a cell phone down here?” His face brightened.

“Over there in my purse in the side pocket. If it’s still charged and the towers are still up, it might work. I had it charging right up until the time we came down here. Get it outta there and let’s give it a try,” she said, motioning to the purse that lay on the end of the couch.

He almost hesitated, knowing that a phone call for help could be his undoing unless he could get far enough away before help came.

“Hand it here,” she motioned. She switched the phone on as he placed it in her hand and squealed with satisfaction when it turned on. “Now, let’s just see if there is any signal down here,” she said examining the phone. “Hell, yeah – good old AT&T to the rescue!”

“Wait!” he yelled at the woman.

She looked at him incredulously. The words “wait for what?” were almost out of her mouth, when she realized.

“Oh, I see. I’d almost forgotten,” she added, gazing up at his anguished face.

“I know I have no right to ask,” he began bargaining, “but if I could just get at least a 30 minute head start to vacate the premises, I would forever be in your debt.”

She mulled over his words before answering with a brazen grin… “I hate having people owe me, but I’d much rather YOU owe me than the other way around.” Arden raised herself up on her elbows and leaned her back against the cellar wall.

“Okay, let’s think about this,” she suggested, rubbing her chin in thought. “Have you been outside yet? Are the barn and garage still standing? How much of the house is left? Are the livestock all right?”

“Hold on,” he said, holding up his hand to allay her barrage of questions. “No, I haven’t been outside yet, but almost all of the house seems fine except for some roof and ceiling damage over the hall and bathroom. The rest seems to be fine except for some debris and light damage from mud splatters and rain.”

“Well then, hurry up and go check outside and let me know what state the barn and garage are in, and if the livestock are all ok. Hurry up,” she ordered anxiously. “I’m concerned about my livestock, and hand me another one of those Dr. Peppers outta the fridge over there. I think between the Scotch and the Darvon, I may need to clear my head a bit to come up with a decent plan to get you outta here and on your way to Elizabeth!”

He sighed a smile of relief at the woman before scrambling up the stairs.

“You’re a real piece of work, you are,” she heard him call after himself. “Yes, you are - a real piece of work!”

She breathed contentedly knowing what she was about to do was the right thing to do, the ONLY thing to do…knowing that the gnawing instinct in her gut that she had grown to trust over the years was guiding her in the right direction.

Chapter 13.

A light rain still veiled the outdoors and the air was laced with the clean, sweet smell of ozones and freshly churned mud. He was almost afraid to peer around the corner of the old ranch house to survey the damage to the out buildings. He breathed an appreciative breath when he spied all were still standing apparently unharmed for the most part. The door had blown off the chicken coop and chickens were scurrying about cackling and flapping their wings. The door to the barn stood ajar barely hanging in place by a couple of petulant hinges, but, for the most part, the old place had weathered the storm. Finally, something that would please the woman.

He hastened toward the barn to see how the livestock had fared and found the animals all seemingly unfrazzled by the twister that had evidently scarcely missed them. He rushed back to the house as hastily as he could – eager to be the bearer of good news.

“It’s all right! It’s all okay,” he bellowed, rushing down the cellar stairs. “Minor damage to the barn door from what I could see. Oh, and the chickens seem to all have gotten loose, but they seem to be no worse for wear the way they’re running around in the yard squawking their heads off,” he grinned. “Other than the roof damage, old girl, a possible broken hip, and a somewhat damaged ego, I’d venture to say, all things considered, you may just come out of this entire entire thing smelling like a rose!”

“Okay, great!” she said. “Guess we’ll just have to see who comes out of all of this smelling like a rose when you hear the plan I’ve devised.” She took a hard swig of the Dr. Pepper and then added: “You’re gonna owe me big for this, mister. Yes, yes sir, you’re gonna owe me big time!”

The man kneeled down beside her to hear what the woman had to say, praying there would be a way he could still get to Elizabeth in time. “Oh, ok, ok, I don’t know what it is, but I don’t have many options right now. So, let’s hear what you’ve come up with.”

“There’s a pickup truck in that garage next to the barn, and if, as you say, the garage is still standing, then so is that truck. The keys are over there in my purse. Hand me my purse again,” she said reaching out. “Here’s the spare set of keys. Insurance papers are in the glove box. And there are 2 or 3 gas cans full of gas out there in the garage, too, so you won’t have to stop to buy gas very often.” She unconsciously chewed on her lower lip as she formulated her infallible plan that would bear him to his eventual destination.

“There’s a map in the top left drawer of that old desk over there,” she said waving her arm in the general direction.

He wasted no time in retrieving it.

“Here, look” she said. “You’ll have to head east down this blacktop cause help will be coming from the west and you might run dead into them if you go that way. Then get on this back highway headed south and stay on it as long as you can because there isn’t much traffic that way.” She traced a finger down the route on the map to his southerly destination.

“Here, right down my address on the map. Then when you get there and don’t need the truck any more, just rent one of those places where you can park it and mail me the key and the storage receipt. I can get my hands to come pick it up later.”

He wiped his clammy brow with the sleeve of the shirt and stared down at the woman in awe. “I will forever be in your debt. I’ll never be able to repay you for this. “

“You WILL…if you LIVE long enough,” she sneered, laughing.

“Now, here, take this phone, and when you get about an hour away from here call 911 and tell them to send an ambulance to my ranch with a couple of good looking EMT’s in it. You’d better warn them about the stairs and where I am. It’s not going to be easy hauling my ass up those stairs.”

“Yes, yes ma’am. I promise I will…whatever you said. I’ll get you some help and mail you back the keys to the truck.” He headed toward the stairs restless to be on his way.

“Wait, wait!” she yelled out to him. “That’s not all – you’ll need some money if you’re going to make it into that hospital. I don’t know what all for,” she said “bribes, extra gas, some kind of disguise to get you in there, for a lawyer when and if they catch you.” She looked up at the man as if to say she understood the daunting task that lay before him. “You’re a smart man. You’ll figure it out. I have every confidence that you’ll be able to do whatever you absolutely have to do to get you in there to Houston. Just don’t hurt anyone to get there. Bribe ‘em if you have to, but just don’t hurt anyone else! That’s all I ask.”

“I swear it,” he promised. “I will never harm another living soul.”

“Over there,” she gestured. “That coffee can that didn’t come open. Count out a couple thousand dollars in tens, twenties and fifties. Smaller bills will attract less attention. Then get another $10,000 in hundreds, which you’ll probably need later for a lawyer. Take that money and use it wisely. What you don’t need, you can just leave locked in the glove box of the truck. You can pay me back if and when you ever get back on your feet again.”

He dropped to the couch in disbelief. “WHY are you doing this?” He dropped his head into his hands, as his eyes welled with tears and he took a deep breath.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I’m just drunk. Maybe it’s just a wakeup call, an awakening. All I know,” she went on “is that I’ve realized in the past few hours trapped down here with you that some things are a damned bit more important in life than money. And you getting to that hospital in time is just about the most important thing in the world right now to BOTH of us.”

“I’m glad you aren’t as hard as you’d have everyone think,” he said. “I understand, and you can believe me when I say that if circumstances were reversed, I would do the same for you, dear lady.”

“Count it out,” she rushed him. “You need to get going. And there’s an old bank bag in that drawer where you got the map that you can put it in.”

His fingers trembled as he counted and sorted the bills, separating the larger denominations and stuffing the money into the bank bag.

“Better stop in the kitchen and gather up some food and drinks to take with you, maybe a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom and those No Doze tablets from the medicine cabinet, and don’t forget that extra flashlight from under the kitchen sink. The less stops you have to make, the less chance you’ll be spotted. There’s a blanket and pillow behind the seat of the truck if you need to get some sleep, and the cb radio should keep you abreast of what’s happening on the roads. And, if you do get stopped, just tell them you’re on your way to buy some livestock for me and have them call me on the house phone – here’s the number. The house phone should be working by then. I’ll vouch for you when they do. Here, I’m writing that number on the map.“ She glanced inquisitively around the cellar as if scanning for anything else he might need.

“I hate to leave you like this,” he said, reluctantly rising to go and securing the bank bag inside his shirt.

“Don’t fret about me. I’m doped up enough to last me for a long time. You need to stop by Paw’s room and get a jacket. The nights can be kind of chilly out there, especially after a storm like that.” She grasped his hand as he started to leave. “One more thing!” she whispered. “You know we are all running. Some of us are running FROM something, and some of us are running TO something. Only we can determine which it’s going to be. I hope for you – that it’s TO something because I’ve come to realize that the time we’ve spent here together will help me to stop running FROM a past that I let embitter me a long time ago.”

He squeezed her hand harder, as she added: “Okay, then, get going, mister. You can’t cross an ocean by just standing there staring at the water. “

He was already gone when she bowed her head and whispered a prayer for him.

Chapter 14.

He was merely a few miles away when he popped one of the No Doze tablets and dialed 911. He didn’t want her left in that cellar injured and alone any longer than she had to be. He reported in detail her condition and where she was exactly and then took one more glance at the map that lay on the seat beside him. He lied and told them she had managed to get a call out to him before her phone died.

He would have laughed had he known that when the EMT’s got to the ranch, they had no trouble locating where Arden was by the sound of the snores rising from the cellar below.

It had been a broken hip and a mild heart attack, but neither had succeeded in keeping her immobile for an extended period of time. She was still as tough as nails, but now there was a certain lightheartedness about her. It was as if an enormous burden had been lifted from her shoulders. It was as if she had been granted a Gift of Purpose.

During her confinement, she had followed the Houston news on the internet. Easton had turned himself in after Elizabeth died a few days following his arrival. He had contacted a prominent attorney and surrendered himself willingly. His attorney had played the “sympathy card” requesting a commutation of his sentence based on time served, his previous good behavior, and the extenuating circumstances of his wife and daughter’s deaths.

Ultimately, it was only due to the positive written recommendations of a majority of the trial officials supporting his attorney’s pleadings that he was resentenced to serve one more year for his escape before he would finally be paroled to freedom. He could begin his life again. He never revealed how he had gotten to Houston.

Arden received the keys to the truck in the mail a week after Easton’s departure, along with an appreciative letter of thanks for all she had done and a promise to repay the money she had so generously given to him. She kept the letter, extracting it from under her mattress from time to time to reread it, reminding herself of the changed person she had become from the experience of meeting Easton.

She had lived through the ranch house being repaired. Predictably, she had cut her hospital stay short, so that she could be there to oversee most of the repairs and make certain that the work was done up to her rigid standards. Buck and Joey had cleared away all the debris, repaired the barn door, and fixed the chicken coop.

To her dismay, old Milo had died shortly after the storm. Buck had brought her the news, while she was still in the hospital that the elderly stud had just walked out into the corral a few days after the storm and dropped over dead. He eased her sorrow by relating how Buster was thriving at his place and enjoying following his son, Joey, all around all day while barking at his heels.

It was good to be home even with the inconvenience of mending from the broken hip. Genevieve, Arden’s cleaning woman, had come every day while Arden recuperated. She had cheerily done all the cooking and cleaning, and helped Arden manipulate her way around while she was on the mend. She and Buck and Joey had proven to be much more than the “hired help” Arden had heretofore thought them to be. They had become lifelong friends. Much to her surprise, there had also been the people from town and surrounding ranches who had come out bringing her food, flowers, and offerings of help as concerned neighbors. Arden came to the startling realization that the storm had changed more than the landscape of her life. It had changed her outlook and her need for people.

Chapter 15.

It had been five years since the night of the storm that had altered Arden’s life and totally rearranged her priorities. She was sitting astride her cutting horse watching Buck trying to break in a new mustang when she saw the unfamiliar pickup truck come barreling down the road. It pulled up to the far side of the corral and parked. No one got out. When the tinted windows prevented her from seeing who the driver was, the woman began trotting her horse toward the truck.

Just as Arden was about to alight from her horse, the door of the truck opened and Easton stepped down smiling from ear to ear wearing jeans, boots and a Stetson cowboy hat.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she swore. “We’ve finally made a Texan out of you!”

He laughed aloud and moved toward her extending his hand.

“Not a card. Not a call. Not anything after all these years,” he said, “so, I decided I needed to make the first move and come to you.”

“What the hell are you talking about, E?” she quizzed, and threw her arms around his shoulders in a massive bear hug.

“Don’t you know?” he asked. “It’s our five year anniversary…the night of the storm…our clandestine meeting.”

“Oh, good grief!” she laughed. “I’ve been so busy lately that I’d forgotten all about that.”

“Well, I hadn’t,” he said moving toward the bed of his truck to retrieve a large package wrapped in brown paper.

“Come on in this house,” she instructed, locking her arm in his. “It’s just about time for my afternoon Scotch and I’m assuming you won’t mind joining me for a couple of pours.”

Neither of them could stop smiling, as they traded barbs on the way to the house.

“A new screen door…finally,” he said.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, ambling toward the pantry to secure a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and two glasses. “Quite a few changes around the old place. Lots of improvements and lots less hassle.”

“So, you’ve moved up in the world now, I see, upgraded to the old Johnny Black label, made a few improvements. What else has been going on around the old place?”

“You bet! Got a better income now with a lot less work. One of those big drilling companies came in here and offered me a bundle to let them drill for oil,” she replied while tearing away the seal on the Scotch. “And wouldn’t you know it – my luck finally changed and that well came in big time and now they’re planning on drilling several more. Yes sir, I’m finally going to be able to take that trip to Europe.”

“Wonderful!” he said. ”When? When are you finally going to go?”

“Believe it or not, this year in a few more weeks. Now that I have that windfall from the oil well, I can go first class and not have to worry about anything. Buck and Joey and a couple more hands are gonna take care of the old place. It doesn’t take much work anymore since I’ve sold off most of the livestock and kept just what we need to feed us.”

“That is absolutely fantastic. I couldn’t be more happy for you,” he said. “Oh, changing the subject, I’ve brought you something…an anniversary present, if you will, that might just enhance your trip a little,” he said reaching into the breast pocket of his leather jacket to retrieve an envelope.

“Oh, really?” she uttered, and turned around in time to see him extending the envelope toward her.

“What’s this?” she asked, laughing. “Well, I’m sorry to say I didn’t get you anything to commemorate the occasion. Guess ole Johnny Walker will have to do for this celebration.”

Her smile faded and tears welled up in her eyes when she opened the envelope and extracted a Cashier’s Check for $20,000. She sat silently at the table searching for what to say before finally uttering: “But this is too, much. It’s too, too much. It’s quite a bit more than what I gave you and I never even expected to get that back.”

“Call it interest,” he said and placed his hand over hers. “What you did changed my life that day – got me through the most difficult period of my life and enabled me to get my life back on track. It’s been hard,” he said “but it’s been well worth it. I’ve gone back to my roots, started chasing my original dream. I started painting again,” he said contentedly. “I sold several of my earlier paintings and some newer ones and sold some of Elizabeth’s sculptures, so that I could finally raise enough money to open my own art gallery in Houston,” he said, placing one of his gallery business cards on the table. “I’ve worked hard and with the help of friends like you, it’s turned out to be a lucratively successful endeavor. I can never thank you enough, Arden,” he said, sincerity brimming in his eyes. “And that’s not all,” he went on. “Here’s another gift” he said retrieving the package by the door. “It’s one of my paintings. It’s my impression of that night, at least what I could remember of it.”

Just then, Buster came sleepily trotting into the room obviously awakened by the noise in the kitchen.

“Buster, old man! So good to see you’re still hanging in there trying to keep the old lady in line.” Brisk tail wagging ensued and the dog wasted no time in jumping into the man’s lap. Easton grabbed a milk bone from the treat bowl and the pup hastily gulped it down.

“He’s still just as worthless as ever, a little slower, a little older like me, but I guess I’ll keep the old boy around.”

Hastily she removed the brown paper wrapping and gasped when she set eyes on the painting. “It’s glorious, simply glorious,” she said, running her hands over the surface, as if feeling the life in his work. “And I know just where I’ll hang it – on the wall just opposite my bed where I can admire it every night before I go to sleep.” She reached across the table and placed a kiss on his cheek. Buster also reciprocated with a lick.

“Wow, I am doubly blessed,” the man said.

Arden sat, her eyes gleaming, admiring the painting.

“I call it ‘A Divine Wind,’” he said “because I long ago realized that it truly WAS a divine wind that blew me in here that night. That if I’d gone any other place, or met any other person, my whole life would have more than likely followed an entirely different path.”

“For both of us,” she said, reaching across the table to pat his hand. “It was an awakening, yes, indeed, a divine wind that blew you in here that night. A wind of change that awoke both of us to make the necessary changes in our lives that we needed.”

She removed a handkerchief from her jeans pocket and dabbed at her eyes before adding: “Yes, truly it was and we have both become better people for it.”

The End

Copyright 2017

Contact – jan@jsmagic.net

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