Stray
Page 118
But before I could say anything, a loud whack sounded in my ear. Ryan howled in pain. The phone clattered to the floor of Daddy’s office, and I held mine out at arm’s length to save my hearing. My father’s voice came back on the line.
“I’m sorry, Faythe. He should have known better than to pass on a message like that.”
I clutched Marc’s hand and tried to steady my voice. It almost worked. “He did warn me.”
“He’s used up all my patience and he should have known better,” Daddy said.
“Maybe now he’ll think before he opens his mouth next time.”
My heart sank as I realized how often those words could have been applied to me.
My father took a deep breath, exhaling into the receiver. “I’m going to let you go now so you can focus. Just remember to stay within sight of the guys and keep your eyes and ears open. You know what you’re doing, so don’t start second-guessing yourself. You’l be fine.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
It wasn’t until after we’d both hung up that I realized I should have told him I loved him. That’s me, always a second too late when it mattered. But that habit was about to change, because a second too late with Miguel would mean my death. Or worse.
Thirty
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time we drove into Oak Hil. The setting sun cast rosy streaks across the sky and long shadows on the ground, warning us al that night was near, and that with it would come Miguel. And one way or another, this entire ordeal would be over.
We had no trouble finding Carissa’s house, though none of us had been there in years. Nearly two miles after we passed the last residential neighborhood, Parker turned right off Highway 19 onto a private dirt road simply labeled Route 12.
The Taylors and their enforcers were the only residents of Route 12. Oak Hil was a very smal town, and they lived on the northern edge of it, on a heavily wooded six-hundred-acre estate, which had been in their family for generations. Half a century earlier, when everyone else in the area was selling off large chunks of real estate for a quick profit, the Taylors had steadfastly clung to their property. Now they owned one of the largest acreages in the area. Like us, they treasured their space and their privacy, and there was plenty of both in the abundant Missouri woodlands, especial y in their own private forest.
Several minutes after we turned, the Taylor house appeared on the right side of the road, at the top of a smal crest half a mile from the highway. Behind it, the forest spread out as far as I could see, primarily a mix of oak trees—white, black, scarlet, and northern red—and other large tree species like black gum, maple, ash, elm, walnut and red cedar.
Against the lush, green backdrop, the house stood tal and proud, like the family it had housed for more than a century. It was a redbrick Greek Revival, with narrow white pil ars, a wide, flat facing, and the trademark front gable. The house was set two hundred feet back from the road on a broad green lawn with a flower-lined brick walkway. It was beautiful, in both its strong straight lines and its wooded isolation.
The garage door opened as we turned into the driveway, revealing an empty space next to a highend older-model sedan, painted beige, but probably cal ed Autumn Harvest, or something equal y pretentious. Parker pulled into the garage and turned off the engine. The door closed behind us.
“Okay, that’s a little creepy,” Ethan said, staring out the rear windshield.
“It’s just Brian,” I assured him. “Daddy said he’d be here to let us in.” Sure enough, the door leading into the house opened, flooding the garage with light from a smal utility room. One of Carissa’s brothers stepped out. He was in his early twenties, too young to have accompanied his father to the ranch on council business, but old enough and experienced enough to help us catch Miguel, even if our plan fel apart.
“Hey, Brian.” Parker got out and shook his hand while the rest of us climbed over each other in a tangled heap, each trying to be first out of the crowded van. I landed on my rear on the concrete, not a very dignified position for someone claiming to be in charge. Marc pulled me up by my hands and pressed me against the side of the van, a suggestive smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
“Give it a rest.” Lucas grabbed Marc’s belt loop as he passed, hauling him backward like a kid towing a wagon. Marc grinned at me and winked, but then his face was al business. By the time he turned to face Brian, he’d abandoned his smile in favor of a serious expression that managed to convey both competence and danger at once. I would have been happy to pull off either one.
After a quick round of masculine back thumping, I stepped forward and Brian held out his hand. “How are you, Faythe?” he asked, as if we were on a first-name basis. He probably thought we were. Because the ratio of tabbies to toms was so low, all the guys thought they knew us well, even the ones we’d only met once or twice. Especial y me.
I’d made quite a reputation for myself by choosing college instead of marriage to Marc, and there were several toms who considered it their personal responsibility to tame the infamous shrew. Marc didn’t look favorably upon attempts to “tame”
me. Neither did I, as one memorable tom from the northeast found out. He was okay, though. Dr. Carver was able to straighten out his fingers with minimal complications. Besides, it was only his left hand. He didn’t have much use for that one anyway, from what I understand.
But Brian Taylor didn’t seem like the daring type to me. He wasn’t cocky or brash. In fact, the opposite seemed true. He was polite, apparently genuinely concerned about me.
“I’m sorry, Faythe. He should have known better than to pass on a message like that.”
I clutched Marc’s hand and tried to steady my voice. It almost worked. “He did warn me.”
“He’s used up all my patience and he should have known better,” Daddy said.
“Maybe now he’ll think before he opens his mouth next time.”
My heart sank as I realized how often those words could have been applied to me.
My father took a deep breath, exhaling into the receiver. “I’m going to let you go now so you can focus. Just remember to stay within sight of the guys and keep your eyes and ears open. You know what you’re doing, so don’t start second-guessing yourself. You’l be fine.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
It wasn’t until after we’d both hung up that I realized I should have told him I loved him. That’s me, always a second too late when it mattered. But that habit was about to change, because a second too late with Miguel would mean my death. Or worse.
Thirty
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time we drove into Oak Hil. The setting sun cast rosy streaks across the sky and long shadows on the ground, warning us al that night was near, and that with it would come Miguel. And one way or another, this entire ordeal would be over.
We had no trouble finding Carissa’s house, though none of us had been there in years. Nearly two miles after we passed the last residential neighborhood, Parker turned right off Highway 19 onto a private dirt road simply labeled Route 12.
The Taylors and their enforcers were the only residents of Route 12. Oak Hil was a very smal town, and they lived on the northern edge of it, on a heavily wooded six-hundred-acre estate, which had been in their family for generations. Half a century earlier, when everyone else in the area was selling off large chunks of real estate for a quick profit, the Taylors had steadfastly clung to their property. Now they owned one of the largest acreages in the area. Like us, they treasured their space and their privacy, and there was plenty of both in the abundant Missouri woodlands, especial y in their own private forest.
Several minutes after we turned, the Taylor house appeared on the right side of the road, at the top of a smal crest half a mile from the highway. Behind it, the forest spread out as far as I could see, primarily a mix of oak trees—white, black, scarlet, and northern red—and other large tree species like black gum, maple, ash, elm, walnut and red cedar.
Against the lush, green backdrop, the house stood tal and proud, like the family it had housed for more than a century. It was a redbrick Greek Revival, with narrow white pil ars, a wide, flat facing, and the trademark front gable. The house was set two hundred feet back from the road on a broad green lawn with a flower-lined brick walkway. It was beautiful, in both its strong straight lines and its wooded isolation.
The garage door opened as we turned into the driveway, revealing an empty space next to a highend older-model sedan, painted beige, but probably cal ed Autumn Harvest, or something equal y pretentious. Parker pulled into the garage and turned off the engine. The door closed behind us.
“Okay, that’s a little creepy,” Ethan said, staring out the rear windshield.
“It’s just Brian,” I assured him. “Daddy said he’d be here to let us in.” Sure enough, the door leading into the house opened, flooding the garage with light from a smal utility room. One of Carissa’s brothers stepped out. He was in his early twenties, too young to have accompanied his father to the ranch on council business, but old enough and experienced enough to help us catch Miguel, even if our plan fel apart.
“Hey, Brian.” Parker got out and shook his hand while the rest of us climbed over each other in a tangled heap, each trying to be first out of the crowded van. I landed on my rear on the concrete, not a very dignified position for someone claiming to be in charge. Marc pulled me up by my hands and pressed me against the side of the van, a suggestive smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
“Give it a rest.” Lucas grabbed Marc’s belt loop as he passed, hauling him backward like a kid towing a wagon. Marc grinned at me and winked, but then his face was al business. By the time he turned to face Brian, he’d abandoned his smile in favor of a serious expression that managed to convey both competence and danger at once. I would have been happy to pull off either one.
After a quick round of masculine back thumping, I stepped forward and Brian held out his hand. “How are you, Faythe?” he asked, as if we were on a first-name basis. He probably thought we were. Because the ratio of tabbies to toms was so low, all the guys thought they knew us well, even the ones we’d only met once or twice. Especial y me.
I’d made quite a reputation for myself by choosing college instead of marriage to Marc, and there were several toms who considered it their personal responsibility to tame the infamous shrew. Marc didn’t look favorably upon attempts to “tame”
me. Neither did I, as one memorable tom from the northeast found out. He was okay, though. Dr. Carver was able to straighten out his fingers with minimal complications. Besides, it was only his left hand. He didn’t have much use for that one anyway, from what I understand.
But Brian Taylor didn’t seem like the daring type to me. He wasn’t cocky or brash. In fact, the opposite seemed true. He was polite, apparently genuinely concerned about me.
