Behind the Bonehouse by Sally Wright

Author:Sally Wright [Wright, Sally]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Kentucky, horses, historical, World War II, architecture, mystery, Christian, family business, equine medicine, Lexington, France, French Resistance
ISBN: 978-0-9827801-5-2
Publisher: Sally Wright
Published: 2016-04-22T04:00:00+00:00

It was past two when Alan woke up and threw the blanket off his face. He sat up shivering, sweat pouring through his shirt, his jeans sticking to his thighs, trying to see where he was.

He’d been back in France, running from a train they’d booby trapped with plastic explosives, and it was night, and there was machinegun fire behind him, and Gary Prescott had just been blown apart fifteen feet to his right.

It’d changed then the way it always did, to him running across a stone square in a tiny village up near Amiens, where he saw a guy from the French Resistance lob a grenade at a woman who’d been posing as a collaborator, but had worked with Alan and the OSS before American troops moved in.

He could see the grenade flying toward her—the perfect arc, the effortless throw—Marie not seeing it as she walked away from him. And then Alan was running faster and faster, screaming at her back. And then he felt himself stumble on a chunk of rubble and hit his face on the edge of a curb—where he watched her get ripped apart against a café window that shattered on her as she fell.

That’s when he woke up, shivering and sweating, and told himself to open his eyes.

He wasn’t in France.

There wasn’t a grenade.

The woman he’d been trying to save had been.

He’d been ten feet away. And he hadn’t stumbled.

And the war was over and done with.

He was in Versailles, Kentucky.

In jail for murdering Carl.

That made Alan laugh—and not be able to stop for longer than he could explain—before he pulled his threadbare blanket up around his shoulders, and told himself to calm down and take a deep breath.

There was light in his cell, from a streetlamp, falling on the concrete floor through the bars on the one high window in the wall on his right where he sat on his metal cot. There was light from a bulb too, in a wire cage, in the hall ceiling beyond the two-foot square of bars in the door on his left.

He heard another door open at the end of the hall, and the clap of hard-soled shoes hitting concrete, heading toward his cell.

The footsteps stopped outside his door, and he looked up and saw a small guy with yellowish skin, holding a mug of coffee in his hand, staring at him through the bars. “You okay in there?”

“Sure. I’m fine. Nothing to worry about here.”

The deputy didn’t answer. He blew on his coffee and took a sip, then walked back to the end of the hall and closed the door behind him.

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