When Sparrows Fall (11 page)

She stifled another cry, her head bumping his damp shoulder. Someone swung the front door open. Jack carried her up the steps and over the threshold with her skirt and cape flapping. Through the veil of her hair, she caught a glimpse of Timothy’s worried expression.

“Make way,” Jack said. “Somebody go pull down the covers.”

Michael ran ahead. Gabriel was underfoot, his thin face alight as Jack swung Miranda in a half turn that made everything spin.

“Rebekah,” he said. “Help me out, please. Undo your mother’s cape.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Miranda whispered as Rebekah hurried to obey.

“Welcome home.” Rebekah tugged at the cape, trying to pull it away, but it was pinned against Jack’s chest. As Miranda was. Her ribs snagged on a spike of pain with every breath.

“Never mind. She can lie on it, for now.” Jack eased her through the narrow doorway of her room, then lowered her onto the bed. “Doin’ all right?”

On the verge of screaming, she fought her way back to control. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not an especially good liar, Mrs. H.” He straightened. “I’m sorry, but if I hadn’t hauled you inside, you’d still be out there.”

“I know.”

His rain-sprinkled face was etched with concern. “Every movement hurts, doesn’t it?”

The unexpected sympathy threatened to undo her. She nodded.

“Then may I recommend one little pain pill?”

Before she could argue, the rest of the children surged into the room. Jack raised one hand, stopping them in their tracks.

“Quiet! One at a time. Gently. No hugs. Not even half hugs.”

They came forward, one at a time, and patted her hand or kissed her cheek. When she thanked Timothy for rescuing her, he shrugged.

“I only dialed 911,” he said. “That’s all.”

Then he must have left her at the bottom of the cliffs. He’d had no choice but to run back to the house, hating himself for abandoning her.

Fresh tears blurred her sight. “You did exactly the right thing, Timothy.”

He lost his smile and slipped out of the room before she could ask how he’d known he needed to look for her.

Martha brought the cuddle-quilt and tucked it tenderly if inefficiently over Miranda’s legs. Finally Jonah came, the one she most wanted to pull close, but he didn’t touch her. He laid his head on the bed. From that sideways perspective, he frowned at her.

“Don’t worry, Jonah. Mama will look better soon. How are you, my big boy?”

He didn’t answer. She could only blow him a kiss. Without smiling, he straightened and ran out.

“Scat, everybody.” Jack made shooing motions toward Michael and Gabriel. “Later, y’all can plague your mama. For now, she needs rest.”

“I do not. I need my children.”

“They’ll keep. Rebekah, hand me those pillows before you go.” He propped Miranda’s right foot on two pillows, straightened the quilt, and gave her toes a squeeze through the soft fabric. “Now I’ll bring you a pill.”

She hesitated, craving the relief. It wouldn’t be wise though. If Mason stopped by, she’d need a clear head. “No, thank you.”

“Medicines, used as prescribed, are a good thing. Your body will mend faster if it doesn’t have to deal with pain too.”

“No.”

Jack threw up his hands and walked out.

“Bekah,” Jonah called from the living room. “C’mere, Bekah.”

With an apologetic glance behind her, Rebekah followed Jack.

He was a bull in a—no, he was a steamroller in a china shop. Miranda’s breaths came short and fast as she tried to master the sobs that racked her chest. Bit by bit, she regained control.

Lifting her head, she squinted at a dark, blurry object on her bureau. A black shaving kit came into focus. A plaid shirt hung on the arm of her chair.

An unfamiliar scent clung to her pillow. A subtle, spicy aftershave. It smelled good. Too good.

The evidence that Jack had been sleeping in her room was disorienting, as if some alien force had invaded her territory. Except, of course, she’d invited him. She’d practically forced him to come.

Mason hadn’t come though. He might have decided she’d earned another shunning. Or maybe Timothy hadn’t spread the word about her fall or about Jack. It would be better that way.

She trained her attention on the sounds that drifted in from the living room.
“My, my, my baby,”
Martha crooned in a singsong, muffled by distance, while Rebekah chattered about something. The girls’ voices faded into the background as Gabriel and Michael started one of their endless arguments.

The commotion rose, it fell, it rose again. Thanks to Jack, the children were still together, in their own home. For how long though? Because Mason would keep pressuring her to move.

Why did he want to drag a black sheep along? It made no sense.

Her eyelids began to yield to exhaustion. She jerked them open. Hoping for even a glimpse of her children as they went about their business, Miranda fought to stay awake.

With Miranda dozing and the kids busy with play or chores, Jack installed himself in one of the rockers on the porch, where the phone signal was decent.
He returned a few calls and learned that his colleagues were doing an admirable job of sharing his workload during his absence; nonetheless, Farnsworth was royally irritated. No surprises there.

Miranda’s timing was off. She should have picked the week of spring break to take her dive.

Jack breathed in, savoring the aroma that somehow escaped from the kitchen to the porch. Tonight, Rebekah was having her first experience with frozen lasagna, ready-made garlic bread, and bagged salad. If he could persuade Miranda to eat, she might agree to a pain pill too.

“Fat chance,” he said, then read a text message from one of his grad students. She was having trouble with a paper and wanted to meet for coffee. Jack sent his answer, suggesting a consultation over the phone.

The last of the rain fell in sporadic drips from eaves and trees. In the distance, a goat bleated. A squirrel chattered in the big oak, and a young rabbit ventured onto the wet grass, its long ears twitching.

That was what the house lacked: animals. A log home in the mountains, complete with a ramshackle barn, should have had a pet or two. The family didn’t even own a goldfish. But if Miranda didn’t want pets, that was her decision.

She would be up to making her own decisions again soon. Once she’d recovered, she would send him on his way, and everything would be back to normal.

Except everything had changed. He was blood kin, not to Miranda, but to the children, and he would never forget them. He would want to come back and make sure they were all right. He would want to introduce Martha to a few hundred good books, teach Rebekah how microwaves worked, teach Timothy … how to smile?

Then there was Miranda. An oddball homeschooler. A beautiful, bruised enigma.

Jack read another text message, replied, and listened to the squirrel.

A sheriff’s cruiser nosed around the curve and bumped up the muddy
driveway. As Jack got to his feet, the deputy parked and climbed out. It was the same man as before, large and sad eyed. Jack had forgotten his name.

“Good evening,” the deputy said.

“Hey, there. Come on up and grab a chair. They’re dry.”

“Thanks, but I can’t stay long.” The deputy came up the steps but remained standing in the cautious, battle-ready posture of soldiers and lawmen. “How’s Mrs. Hanford?”

Jack gave the man’s name tag a surreptitious look. “Nice of you to check up on her, Officer Dean. I just brought her home. She’s pretty beat-up, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.”

“That’s good news. The family’s doing all right?”

“Doing fine. They’re great kids.”

“I remember that. I was on duty the day Carl died.” Dean rubbed one finger against his temple. “Late last night, it dawned on me. That was almost exactly two years ago.”

The unspoken question hung there, breathed into the stillness from their matching thoughts. Jack wouldn’t be the one to ask it out loud.

Dean cleared his throat. “Have you seen anything that would shed some light on Mrs. Hanford’s frame of mind in the days leading up to her, ah, accident?” He said the last word lightly but precisely, giving the effect of putting imaginary quotation marks around it.

“I wasn’t around, remember? Have you asked Timothy?”

“Yes, and I would like to believe his version of events.”

“And that is …?”

“He told me she has a history of fasting, getting dizzy, and falling. So he was worried about her that morning, knowing she was fasting, knowing she liked to walk to the cliffs before the little ones woke up. He followed her. At a distance, he said, because if she’d spotted him, she would’ve told him to mind his own business.”

“I’ve been wondering how he happened to find her at the bottom of the cliffs, but he never wants to talk.”

“Typical of that age, I guess. Well, they’re a fine family.”

“Yes, although I have a few disagreements with the worldview that Carl imposed upon them.”

Dean studied him for a moment. “You really didn’t know Carl?”

“No sir. There were some hard feelings between my dad’s first and second wives, so he thought it prudent to raise me in the next county. Different schools and all. How well did you know Carl?”

“I didn’t, really, but I saw the two of them around town, sometimes. He’d be walkin’ all over her, and she’d be takin’ it.” Dean’s face hardened. “The one thing Mrs. Hanford doesn’t need is another man ordering her around.”

“I agree.”

A long silence followed, making Jack newly aware of the property’s seclusion. No traffic sounds. No barking dogs. Nothing but bird songs and wind in the trees. It had to be a lonely place for a widow and six kids.

“Do you know much about Miranda’s church?” Jack asked. “The head honcho is named Mason Chandler.”

“I know who he is, but I haven’t had any dealings with him.” Dean squinted against the sun. “It’s not illegal to be different.”

“You’d agree that his church isn’t exactly mainstream?”

“That’s a good way to put it.”

“But the man isn’t criminally inclined?”

“Not that I know of, but let me put it this way.” Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’d rather pet a copperhead than buddy up to Chandler.” The radio clipped to Dean’s uniform squawked, and a dispatcher rattled off a series of garbled words and numbers. He drawled a response and nodded at Jack. “I’ll have to answer this call.”

“Thanks for stopping by.”

Dean pulled a card from his pocket, scribbled something on it, and offered it to Jack. “That’s my personal number. Call any time, or stop by the station. We’re in the city hall building. The coffee’s always on, and the checkerboard comes out when things get slow.”

“One of the advantages of living in a small town.”

“You bet. We like to keep things simple.” Dean strolled to his car. “Keep a close eye on those kids,” he said over his shoulder. “Keep countin’ noses.”

“Yes sir, I will.”

As Dean’s car pulled out of sight, Jack made his way across the wet grass to the dead branch that hung from the young oak. Now, with no fog to veil reality, there was nothing sinister about it. It was only a broken limb, dark with decay and slick with rain. He twisted at it until it broke, the pith of it still green, then dropped it on the weedy grass in front of his shoes. His feet were soaked right through the leather, chilling him.

Walking back to the house, he pictured a blond giant of a man on the roof, hammering shingles. Carl’s foot had slipped. His hands clawed and clutched but found nothing to hang on to. His wife and children heard the sounds of disaster and ran outside, but it was too late.

Unlike the rest of the house, the roof was in good repair. Somebody had finished the job. The job that finished Carl.

Jack sat in the rocker again and tried to shed the gory pictures his imagination had produced. Even a jerk like Carl shouldn’t have died that way.

But if he’d been such a jerk, why had Miranda married him? Only a year out of high school, maybe she hadn’t known much about men or—

Glass shattered, the sound launching Jack out of the chair. He was inside in two strides and running toward her room.

eight

J
ack skidded into the room, his wet shoes sliding on the planks.

Miranda lifted her head from the pillow, her eyes big and scared. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” If his heart had been a jackhammer, it would have slammed through the floorboards already.

Shouts of alarm came from upstairs, and he ran. Timothy crowded past him and bounded up the stairs, followed by Rebekah with her long dress rustling like a prairie schoolmarm’s.

Jack caught up with them in the doorway of the boys’ room. Michael and Gabriel stood side by side, their backs to the door. A softball lay on the braided rug in the center of the room. On the bare floorboards by the wall, a picture frame lay face down, surrounded by shards of broken glass.

No blood. No catastrophe. Not this time.

“Y’all were playing catch?” Jack asked. “Inside?”

The archangels turned around, hanging their heads. “Yes sir,” they squeaked in unison.