woman was his lookout. No, not ever again.
He gave thanks when the fir and pines guarding his land closed her from his sight. All he heard was the faint squeak-squee-eak of a buggy wheel and then nothing but silence.
Just the way he liked it.
Well, that hadn’t gone too badly, considering. Betsy waited until she was certain Mr. Hennessey was well out of sight before she retrieved her lunch pail from beneath the seat.
As she unwrapped her tomato, lettuce and salt pork sandwich, she felt sorry for her least-favorite customer—although, on objective terms, he was her best client. He paid extra delivery fees, for he was far out of her usual delivery area. It was nearly an entire afternoon’s round trip. Twenty miles one way. Mr. Curmudgeon—oops! Mr. Hennessey—paid more to have his laundry brought to him than for the actual washing and ironing itself. With the county having come upon hard times from storms and drought, she couldn’t afford to alienate a single customer.
Which is what troubled her as she bit into her sandwich. The crisp salty pork and sweet fresh tomato and her ma’s rye bread made her stomach growl all the harder, it was so good. She chewed, planting the water jug between her thighs to hold it steady while she worked the stopper with her free hand. It gave with a pop and she took a long cool swing.
Much better. Dealing with Mr. Difficult was always a trial, but she’d managed to do fairly well this time. He’d been surprised to see her—she’d known he would be. He’d growled and given a very intimidating scowl, but he hadn’t fired her. He wasn’t going to. He couldn’t fool her. She had taken his measure long ago. Her Mr. Curmudgeon was a wounded beast whose snarl was much worse than his bite.
He was simply an unhappy and distrustful loner. She wondered what had made him like that. Had he always been so bitter? What heartbreak could have possibly made him that way? What would compel a man to retreat from civilization and live alone in the wilderness, over twenty miles from the nearest town?
Whatever happened to him, it had to have been terribly tragic. Betsy tried to imagine the possibilities as she transferred the half-eaten sandwich into her driving hand and dug in her little lunch pail with the other. The image of Duncan Hennessey, shirtless, his glorious male form kissed by the brazen sun, troubled her. He was one fine-looking man. Too fine for the life of a recluse. It was a woman that had broken his spirit. Maybe she’d jilted him. Or maybe she’d died.
Yes, she knew that pain. Although she’d been a widow for over five years now, the sadness of losing Charlie remained. If she hadn’t had a loving family and wonderful friends to keep her firmly in this world, she could see how that painful grief could drive a person to a solitary life.
Losing a loved one hurt more than anything. It was one reason she’d never been able to remarry. The thought of being so vulnerable again frightened her. Her life, her heart, her very soul had been devastated. Maybe that was why Mr. Hennessey was so unpleasant. He never wanted to let anyone into his heart again.
Her heart twisted in sympathy. As beastly as he was on the outside only pointed to a deep, private pain. The poor man. That’s why she never allowed his surly behavior to trouble her. As she unwrapped her slice of strawberry pie, she vowed to be even friendlier the next time she crossed his path.
With her mouth watering, she took a rich, creamy bite. Sweet berries burst on her tongue and she moaned in delight. She savored the lovely flavors, for she believed hat the enjoyment of a good dessert should ever be rushed.
For no reason, Morris froze in the middle of the path and the buggy jerked at the sudden stop. She looked up in surprise as the fork tumbled out of her fingers, taking her next bite of pie with it. She watched the steel utensil and ruby-red strawberries tumble between the dash and the whiffletree. Before dismay could settle in, she realized her horse was twitching, as if a thousand flies were crawling over his warm coat, but there wasn’t a single fly anywhere.
What was wrong with Morris? There was no danger in sight, although it was very shadowy. The ancient trees blocked most of the light from the sky and they seemed to moan, but that was just the rising wind rubbing limbs together.
“It’s all right, sweet boy.” She reached to set the brake so she could hop out and retrieve her fork.
Morris’s ears swiveled, as if he heard some danger approaching, and he gave a frightened whinny. That simply couldn’t be a good sign. Betsy pushed her meal aside, her dessert forgotten and reached for the Winchester.
It wasn’t on the seat where it was supposed to be. Her tin lunch pail sat there instead, emitting the scent of wonderful strawberries. Where did the gun go? The tiny hairs along Betsy’s nape stood straight on end and tingled. She wanted her rifle.
As Morris whinnied again, she dropped to her knees on the floorboards. There it was. She grasped the sun-warmed barrel in time to see a shadow move between the trees—a tall figure with wide shoulders and brawny arms. She caught a glimpse of dark hair above harsh black eyes. That wasn’t Mr. Hennessey, was it?
The branches parted and it wasn’t Mr. Hennessey breaking through the thick undergrowth. It was a bear.
The blood rushed from her head as the great black bear reared up on his hind legs, using his powerful limbs and claws to break away the impeding ever-greens. Thick boughs snapped like gunfire, but it was a small sound compared to the bear’s furious roar. His enormous jaws twisted open, exposing huge rows of teeth. Sharp, jagged teeth made for tearing his prey into small, manageable bites.
Time seemed to slow. She couldn’t lift the gun fast enough. The bear was reaching out with his enormous humanlike hands, except for the lethal claws at the tips. As he roared again, saliva dripped from his mouth. The beast was looking for lunch, and she doubted he wanted her sandwich or her pie, although they were both very good. He was eyeing her horse!
In a strangely eerie slow motion, the bear began to lunge and she positioned the Winchester against her shoulder and aimed. As the bear emerged onto the road, her finger found the trigger and, pulse thudding in her ears so hard she was shaking with the force of it, she squeezed. Light and smoke exploded from the steel barrel. The gun kicked hard against her shoulder and leaped out of her hands. The bear roared again and slapped at his left arm.
Like an indignant human, the creature gazed down at his fur, saw the blood, and attacked. Betsy fumbled for the gun, but her right arm was numb and didn’t move as fast as she wanted it to. Morris chose that moment to leap into a full gallop. The buggy jerked, she lost her balance and tumbled right off the floor, rolling head over skirts in midair. For the brief instant she was upside down, with her petticoats spilling over her face and the ground rushing up to meet her, she caught sight of her fork shimmering in the bright sunshine.
It was an odd thing to notice, she thought in the last few seconds she had left to live. The bear’s enormous hairy feet were pounding toward her and her thoughts flashed forward in time. If she somehow lived to tell this tale to her dear friends, whom she was to meet this afternoon for tea, she could imagine how they would laugh hysterically about the bear’s feet. It would sure make a funny story, how she was almost eaten by a bear while eating her lunch—
The ground stuck her hard in the back and seemed to jar some sense into her. Her body impacted next. Pain thudded through her. Air left her lungs in a whoosh. Suddenly a shadow rose over her and she squeezed her eyes shut. She no longer had hold of her gun. She was defenseless and this was it—this was death. She didn’t want to see the bear’s terrifying teeth and lethal jaw opening wide to take a bite of her. Fear turned her blood to ice and there was nothing she could do. There was no way to stop him—
A
