Prodigal Son by Lauren Gilley

Author:Lauren Gilley [Gilley, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HP Press
Published: 2018-12-14T16:00:00+00:00

~*~

Morgan was, from initial appearances, more like Abe than Dad. Fox considered that one for the win column. Trim and compact, with iron gray hair trimmed to an appropriate style, and a tidy beard. He wore jeans and a shawl-collared sweater, and in addition to his high-power flashlight carried an old-fashioned oil lantern, its sides shuttered until he locked the heavy barn doors behind them. Then he opened it and let the warm light spill across the dirt floor, illuminating stalls and sleepy, startled horses.

He knelt and pulled up a trapdoor, which offered more light. “We live down here for now,” he said. “It’s all set up. Come on.” And started down a wooden staircase.

Fox had the sense of entering a dream. He marveled at his lack of response earlier, out on the driveway. When the light fell across them, Eden and Evan had both been drawn tight, ready to bolt or shoot. But Dad, and Abe, and Fox himself had just stood there. He’d like to say that he’d known the light belonged to Morgan, and that they hadn’t been in danger, but that would have been a lie. He didn’t know how to explain the numbness that kept creeping, and creeping, and creeping over him. It had started early, he guessed, that day in Dad’s apartment, but he hadn’t realized it. This whole thing felt like a movie he’d stepped into, and nothing real or plausible. He was disconnecting. Emotionally. And all the while his brain was moving at double-time.

For starters, he wanted to know why Eden had called Morgan “Captain Harlowe,” and why she looked like she’d seen a ghost.

But first they went down a narrow flight of stairs and landed in a narrow, wood-walled hallway, the floor laid with red brick, a lamp on a table providing the light. Morgan pulled the hatch down after them, and latched it, then set off down the hall.

“This way.”

The hallway led into a lounge that radiated cozy from every corner. Low whitewashed ceiling beams, a brick fireplace with a flickering ventless stove at its center. Worn leather couches and chairs, knitted throws draped over their backs, and a thick rope rug under a steamer trunk coffee table. Table lamps provided warm light.

The lounge adjoined a kitchen through a wide cased opening, a room full of white cabinets, stone counters, and antique appliances. A hallway led deeper in, doubtless to bedrooms and washrooms.

It was a wonder.

“This is all under the barn?” Devin asked with an appreciative whistle.

“No, it’s underground,” Morgan said. “The barn’s over there.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “The whole thing would collapse on our heads if we’d dug underneath it.”

A woman appeared in the doorway, wiry and spare, graying hair tied back in a braid. She wore a flannel shirt and jeans; held a revolver down low, against her thigh, her grip on the weapon familiar.

“It’s alright, Nora,” Morgan said. “These are old friends.”

She surveyed them with an iron gaze, chin raised to a defiant angle. Finally, she snorted and turned away.

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