Stranger on Raven's Ridge Read Free

devastation.
    Her eyes came into sudden, sharp focus on Gaitor’s. She saw the sheen of tears inside them. And for the first time in six eerily long days, she broke down and wept.

Chapter Two
    Raven’s Cove, Maine
Two years later
    “Y OU ’ VE LOST YOUR mind. I mean it. You are deep in the woods with
no bread crumbs, heading straight for the gingerbread house.” George Parkins dug
in and held on as Raven downshifted the small cube van to navigate a steep
slope. “This is crazy. You’re on track to be a top-flight diagnostic physician.
You’re moving and shaking—and I’m not referring to this rattletrap truck you
rented. What on earth made you listen to a man five decades older than
Methuselah and put a to-die-for job on hold? And please don’t say so you could
practice medicine in the speck of a town where Methuselah’s grandfather
lives.”
    Raven kept her eyes on the thin slice of road that probably
hadn’t seen a paving crew since Elvis’s time. “Methuselah’s grandfather is my
great-grandfather, George. His name’s Rooney Blume.”
    “And he’s in possession of how many faculties?”
    “More than you and me combined, I imagine.” She sent him a
quick grin. Very quick. The pothole she’d avoided a moment ago could have passed
for a wading pool. “Raven’s Cove needs a doctor. The population tops a thousand
these days, and all they have physician-wise is a retired army medic with so-so
vision and a lingering case of shell shock. That won’t provide much comfort to a
woman in her third trimester or a man with a ruptured hernia. Besides—” she
downshifted again “—you volunteered to ride shotgun. No one’s asking you to live
here.”
    George offered back a strange look. “So you’ve decided to make
the move, then? I’d hoped you were only doing a favor for an old man.”
    “I am—for now. Rooney needs new appliances, and the friend from
whose small store he made his purchase can’t deliver them. I wanted to check out
Raven’s Cove, the drive’s manageable even in a rattletrap truck, and I like
doing favors for friends and family. Especially for one very old man who’s
optimistic enough to believe he’ll be able to enjoy a kitchen full of new
appliances well into the next decade.”
    With a baffled shake of his head, George regarded the sky. “Are
those purply-black things up there rain clouds?”
    Raven avoided a deep rut. “My mother says they’re a perpetual
formation at this time of year.”
    “Uh, okay... Do I want to know why?”
    A teasing smile appeared. “It’s part of an ancient legend.
Involves one of my ancestors. Said ancestor, Hezekiah Blume, allowed an evil
spirit to take possession of his soul. He thought better of it later, but
couldn’t wriggle out of the deal without major help. Enter a good spirit who
tried and failed to exorcise its nasty counterpart. The only option left was
transformation. Man and evil became a raven.”
    “So you’re...are you telling me you were named for a
legend?”
    “In a way. But only if you want to be technical, which my
mother hasn’t been since the day she was born. They called her Spacey Lacy when
she lived here.”
    “Who are they?”
    “Acquaintances mostly, many of whom have absolutely no business
throwing stones since the bulk of them believe that any person finding three
raven’s feathers on their door is destined to die.”
    “Raven’s feathers,” George repeated. “On the door.”
    “Placed there by the clairvoyant raven into which Hezekiah was
transformed.”
    George stared at her. “When did this transformation take
place?”
    “Three centuries ago, give or take.”
    “So we’re talking about one freaking old bird.”
    “If you believe, yes. Otherwise, it’s just a bread crumb and
gingerbread tale.” Her lips twitched at his befuddled expression. “I did warn
you before you flew to Portland that Raven’s Cove was a little odd, and you
might want to rethink your decision to come.”
    When his