Harper Allen - Protector With A Past

Lizbet was in there somewhere, behind the clutter of boxes and old tarpaulins and rusty motor parts. Despite any other doubts she might have, Julia knew she hadn’t been wrong about that. The child was here and she was still in danger. As if to underline her apprehension, the wind from the lake outside freshened as it always did just before dawn, and the timbers creaked ominously. The structure was in worse repair than she’d realized, she thought in alarm.

As Cord held the whining King back and followed her with a worried gaze, Julia stepped nervously into the darkness and started edging her way toward the back of the boathouse.

With her first step she felt the sponginess of rot underfoot, the unexpected give where there should have been solidity. Through the flimsy soles of her scuffs she felt the pebble-like pressure of a nailhead that had risen higher than the floorboard it originally had been meant to secure. She gingerly put her full weight onto her leg and held her breath. The floor sagged, but didn’t break.

There was a rustling sound by the far wall, on the other side of the dully gleaming rectangle in the middle of the boathouse, and then a muffled splash as something slipped into the water. Julia tried to control her shudder, but she couldn’t prevent the unpleasant prickling sensation that lifted the skin at the back of her neck. Water rats. It was bad enough knowing that they were scurrying around her in the dark, but feeling something bump against her underwater would send her right over the edge of panic. She only hoped that Lizbet didn’t know what those scuffling noises meant.

She was halfway to the pile of boxes now, and she paused. Keeping her voice low, she spoke into the darkness, praying that her presence wouldn’t frighten the little girl into any sudden movement.

“It’s me, Lizbet—your Aunt Julia. Uncle Cord’s waiting outside for us.”

She slid her foot carefully a few inches forward and felt the sickening emptiness of a missing section of floor. Sweat beaded like ice water on her forehead as she realized that Lizbet must have come this way herself only a short time before. That the child had made it safely to her dangerous refuge had been nothing short of a miracle, Julia thought shakily. She felt for a more secure footing and edged closer.

“I don’t blame you for running away, and no one’s going to make you come back if you’re not ready to. But I’ve got something important to tell you. I want you to know I’m really, really sorry for making you feel sad back at the house.”

She’d reached the pile of crates. Listening intently, she thought she could hear the soft sound of an indrawn breath behind one of them. The floor where she was standing felt more solid than the surrounding area, and she cautiously lowered herself to her knees. It was frightening enough here in the unfamiliar dark. The child whose trust she was trying to win didn’t need a disembodied voice floating down at her from on high.

“Do you know what a good luck charm is, Lizbet? It’s like a rabbit’s foot or maybe a shiny penny that you keep in your pocket for luck.” She saw a gleam of white sneaker edging from behind the crate, but she went on with careful casualness. “But there are bad luck charms, too—and that’s what I thought I was for you. I thought if you stayed with me I would bring you bad luck, Lizbet. Thinking that that made me so afraid that I thought you’d be safer somewhere else.”

Slowly a tiny, heart-shaped face peered out from the pile of boxes. In the gloom, Lizbet’s eyes were wide and solemn. She looked ready to dart back into her makeshift sanctuary at any sudden movement.

“Except then I remembered something that I had when I was your age—a good luck charm so strong that I figure it can cancel out any bad luck that I might bring.”

Slowly she reached into the pocket of the chenille robe and felt the smooth, perfect roundness of the stone that Cord had given her so long ago. Once it had been a talisman for a scared, confused little girl. It was time its protective magic was put back to use. Julia drew the stone out of her pocket and held it in her open palm.

“Take it. It’s yours now.”

A small hand reached out toward hers and touched the cool stone with minute fingertips. The next moment Lizbet’s fingers closed around the rock and whisked it to the safety of her own jeans’ pocket. Julia let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“I’m kind of hungry—how about you? If you want, we can go up to the house and I bet I can get Uncle Cord to make us both some of his famous buttermilk pancakes. He’s a way better cook than I am.”

It was going to be a long time before she’d be able to coax a giggle out of that serious little mouth, Julia told herself. Right now it was enough to see the pinched, white look replaced for a split second by the tentative flicker of a smile. She held out her hand, feeling somehow as if she was facing the biggest and most important test of her whole life.

“It’s pretty dark in here. I’m going to need you to hold on tight to keep me from falling into the lake.”

Through the cracks in the boathouse walls came a thin shaft of dawn light, enough so that she could see the heart-shaped face looking at her doubtfully. Then the two silky wings of red hair swung forward as Lizbet nodded silently. The little hand was cold as it slipped into hers and gripped tightly.

“Your mom was my best friend, honey.”

Julia’s whisper was uneven. Somewhere deep inside her she felt a painfully sweet sensation, as if a patch of ground that had been parched for too long had suddenly been split by the slender green shoot of a seedling. Despite the tears that prickled behind her lashes, she kept her eyes on Lizbet’s hesitant blue gaze, but when she spoke again her words were so soft she almost could have been talking to herself.

“I think she’d like it that we’re finally getting to know each other.”

He’d gotten about as much sleep as she had, Julia thought distractedly the next morning—a couple of hours, maybe less—but at least she’d done her tossing and turning in her own bed. The obviously weary man in front of her had wrapped himself up in an old quilt, pulled one of the ancient overstuffed armchairs from the living room into the hall and had catnapped outside of Davey’s room.

Despite the sun it was early in the season, and although by mid-June the earth itself would have absorbed enough warmth to dispel the last cold dampness of spring, right now the breeze blowing off the lake still held more than a hint of its northern origins, and the distinct green scent of the nearby pines sharpened the atmosphere like tiny slivers of ice. The trees on the property—the hickories, maples and the massive old oak that shaded the house in the summer—had leafed out, but their foliage hadn’t thickened to the dense canopy that it would create in a few more weeks. Through the tangle of branches above, the sky looked like well-bleached denim. Julia stopped by a grove of tamaracks that had once provided an almost Oriental background to a long-vanished rock garden.

“What are we going to do about Lizbet?”

She flicked a quick glance over her shoulder at the house. The child was still sleeping, and King had been left on guard in her room in case she awoke. Earlier Cord had told her that he’d informed Sheila’s mother last night that he had her granddaughter, and Betty Wilson, devastated by the news she’d just received, had been all too grateful that the child was with them. Betty had been battling cancer, Julia knew, and even if she hadn’t been stricken with grief she was no longer able to care for her beloved Lizbet.

“I’ve thought about that. Since Dad moved some friends of mine have been living in our old place down the road. Dad said the place held too many memories of Mom for him to want to sell it.” Cord’s voice held affection. “Anyway, Mary and Frank Whitefield will take Lizbet in for as long as we need to keep her out of sight. I don’t want her around while we’re trying to track down her parents’ killer.”