Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2) by Lori G. Armstrong

Author:Lori G. Armstrong
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Medallion Press
Published: 2006-11-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

I’D MANAGED TO SCORCH MY LUNGS WITH A FEW CIGARETTES on the way home from Kevin’s.

The soft, sweet air exclusive to summer mornings breezed through my car window. On this glorious day, I drank in the sights and sounds of the season that I’d been too busy to notice.

A rocky meadow stretched alongside the road. The rolling ground dipped and spread out until it butted up against a steep pine-covered hill. Sumac grew in spots along the fence line, the rosy-magenta blooms of fire-weed played peek-a-boo with the tall stands of grass. This time of year the grasses ranged in color from a robust green to mustard yellow to a toasted brown.

My imagination, or was everything covered in a fine layer of dust?

In the pen of the riding range that ran perpendicular to the highway, two colts frolicked while the rancher loaded hay bales into the back of a beat-up Ford truck.

I stuck my arm out the window and waved. He waved back.

We’re all neighbors in friendly South Dakota.

A few early risers on my street, who cared about their homes, were out watering lawns, flowers, and vegetable gardens in hopes of combating the impending heat.

Life didn’t stop for death. While the gardeners were fretting about dry rot and fertilization, people like Kevin, and Lilly’s family, were mired in grief.

I passed Kiyah’s run-down house; chipped gray paint, busted screen door, garbage scattered throughout the front yard. My feeling of peace dissipated.

The periodic visits from Social Services hadn’t changed her situation. Strange men still paraded through her mother’s house and bed. Because of the restraining order, Kiyah could no longer seek refuge with me.

Without me as a crutch had Kiyah finally made friends her own age in our neighborhood?

I gave myself a mental slap. I had to let go, no matter how much I hated it. No matter how many nights I’d lain in bed listening to the loud party next door, worrying about one scrawny seven-year old girl.

Hopefully Chloe Black Dog was in a better situation.

I parked and headed toward the house when I noticed Mrs. Babbitt on her knees, pulling weeds by the chain link fence that separated her property from the Crendahl’s. A tattered straw hat was perched on her head, the lemon yellow ribbons flapped merrily in the wind. Next thing I knew, the hat was cartwheeling toward me.

I snagged it before it became a kite.

Mrs. Babbitt scampered over. “Oh, thank you!”

“No problem.” I twirled the hat on my finger before passing it back.

For most of my neighbors money was tight. The Babbitt household was no exception, but Eleanor always looked neat as a pin, whether in worn gardening togs or Sunday-goin’-to-meetin’ clothes.

Today she seemed frayed around the edges.

Her gardening gloves were caked with dirt, as were her navy polyester pants, pilled in places, patched in others. The long, loose-sleeved blouse, dotted with blue cabbage roses, hung past her ample hips.

No chi-chi neon-colored rubber gardening clogs for her. She wore plain white canvas lace-up tennis shoes, covered with grass stains that matched the gloves.

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