The Storm Read Free

farm.”

    *

    â€œMolly. Molly Lee.” What in tarnation was she doing out in the barn so long?
    Mrs. Russell grabbed a long amber bottle from a kitchen drawer and rolled out the biscuit dough on a floured board with hard, fast strokes.
    She was glad she could talk to her husband, Calvin, about anything. Even if he had been dead nigh on forty years, looking at the big picture in her room of him wearing his Confederate uniform kept him alive in her mind most all the time.
    â€œI heard Molly get up late this morning, the lazy heifer. Then she lolled around getting dressed. Sounded like she was in a daze, stumbling over everything. I give her the easiest chores on the place, and she can’t even get up and out in time to do ’em right,” she muttered to him. “Where’s that gal’s head most of the time? In the clouds, I reckon.”
    After patting plump biscuits into a greased pan, she shoved them into the hot oven and slammed the door shut with a clang.
    â€œMost likely dreaming up a new piece of music, Calvin.” At least he understood what she had to put up with. “Says she wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes with a song running through her head, so loud she has to jump out of bed and scribble it down. Thinks she’s another Chikovski—some fancy Russian fella she’s always carrying on about. Well, if she doesn’t bring me some milk pretty soon, I’ll Chikovski her.”
    She stormed halfway out to the barn and called again. “Molly, I know you can hear me. We need some fresh milk in this house right this minute. You best quit lollygagging and get a move on.”
    A blue jay on the peak of the outhouse raised his crest straight up and squawked like he was mocking her. She threw a stick at him then marched back to the house in the early morning light.
    Maybe she’d get a rise out of Molly, the little slacker, but she doubted it. The overeducated know-it-all.

Chapter Three
    Jaq tightened her grip on the steering wheel of her black Model T. “Damn. We’ve been on the road—if that’s what you call these washed-out ruts—three days. They’re pounding me to jelly.”
    â€œSorry I can’t help more. Maybe my leg will be better when we head back.” Eric McCade unwrapped the white butcher paper from a wedge of yellow cheese and pulled out his pocketknife.
    â€œHow much farther to New Hope?”
    He handed her a thin slice with larded cheesecloth still stuck to one end. “I bet you didn’t hear me say it’s almost four hundred miles all told. Thinking about getting away from your mother, weren’t you? She and your pop seemed concerned about you when we left.”
    â€œYou’re imagining things. Now she won’t have anybody to gripe at except him. She knows he’ll stay at his office even more now, without me to distract her. Just tell me when we’ll get there.” She bit into the sharp cheese, its pungent, earthy flavor easing her queasy stomach. “How about some crackers? I can still taste that chili from last night.” This drive through Louisiana made her appreciate the luxury of traveling by ship and train.
    Eric maneuvered several saltines from their waxy package. “Here you go. If we expect to find someplace better than that dump we stayed in yesterday, we need to make it to Natchitoches tonight.”
    â€œOkay. How far’s that?”
    â€œForty more miles, give or take.”
    â€œI’ve given you about all I can. Another half day? Then what?” She polished off the crackers and another piece of cheese, dusted the crumbs onto the black rubber floorboard, then pointed toward the half-empty Coca Cola bottle he held between his legs. “Remind me again how I let you talk me into this.” She could kick herself. She must have been nuts.
    â€œSo many questions.” He handed her the Coke. “We’ll reach New Hope Saturday. And in case