The Wild Child by Judith Bowen

Author:Judith Bowen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2003-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SILAS STOPPED to wipe his eyes, cursing as a rain-laden cedar branch smacked across his face. The wind had shifted slightly to the north and blew steadily with gusts that whipped trees into a frenzy and sent wet branches slamming furiously this way and that. He couldn’t see a thing beyond the thin arc of his flashlight, except for the water running along the gutter in the rocks before him on the path and the branches looming suddenly, reaching for him from the darkness on either side of the trail. The moon, nearly full tonight, was completely obscured by storm clouds.

He pushed on. The journey to the split in the path was less than a third of a mile, a ten-minute walk, yet tonight it seemed endless. He watched carefully for the faint track that bore to the left, toward the creek crossing and the Bonhomme house. There’d been very little traffic along that trail over the years. Now, with everything wet, it was even harder to see. If he went too far, he’d end up at The Baths. The flashlight beam revealed only crude light and shadow, black and white.

Still, he knew the way.

Silas found the fork, and noticed a bedraggled loop of yarn still hanging from a broken branch about four feet from the ground. Fanny-height. Part of the “map” she’d made so Eva could find her way to the party. Clever girl. Had it really only been last Tuesday? Five short days ago?

He emerged from the trees into the full force of the gale. He’d been protected, to some degree, in the forest. What was that sound, though, beneath the howl of the wind? The creek? It had risen several inches and frothed with foam and muddy water, spilling over the rocks and the slippery fallen tree normally used to cross the stream. Silas made his way gingerly through the water, feeling for sound footing in the rough creek bed as he went. The water surged past his knees. His shirt was soaked, and now his jeans were wet, too.

He was probably crazy—he knew he was crazy! This was worse than those times he’d felt compelled to creep through the forest to spy on the old woman, make sure she had enough firewood, see that the runabout, her only way off the island, was secure. Chances were, Eva was sound asleep, safe in bed, her boat safe, too. Even the damn donkey was probably snoring in the woodshed, waiting out the storm. The only one stupid enough to venture out in weather like this was Silas.

But he knew he couldn’t have stayed home. He wouldn’t have slept, not knowing….

There was no light in the house but that didn’t mean anything. On Liberty Island, lamps were only used when necessary. Why waste kerosene to light up the whole house if you were reading in bed?

Out in the open, Silas could see a little more. There was a glow from the water, perhaps a reflection of some distant, angled moonlight.

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