TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [39]
“I never expected this,” Jack said.
She grinned at him. “Yeah, I know.”
What he’d expected, Rachael imagined, was some sort of shack, car parts strewn in the front, smoke billowing out of a dilapidated chimney, but not this. “It’s a work of art,” he said. “The yard and the house, framed by the thick forest, it looks like a postcard. And the flower bed. In a month or so there’ll be a rainbow of color.” He saw the two outbuildings standing off to the side. “Food storage for the winter?”
“Yes, and other supplies, as well. Uncle Gillette hates going into town. He stocks up six months at a time.”
“Is he expecting us?”
“Oh yes. I called him right before we left Parlow, told him I was coming and bringing a guest. Still, maybe it’s best to wave a white scarf. That’ll keep him from shooting us.” Then she poked Jack in the arm and laughed. “Gotcha.”
A tall man came out of the house to stand on the front porch. He waved at them as he trotted down the half-dozen wooden steps.
Rachael ran to him. Jack watched the man gather her into his arms, hold her tight, his head touching hers.
When Jack got close, the man looked up, smiled. “Welcome to Slipper Hollow. I’m Gillette Janes.”
“I’m FBI Agent Jackson Crowne. Call me Jack. I’m protecting Rachael.” Gillette didn’t let Rachael go, merely stuck out his hand. It was a competent hand, long-fingered, like a musician’s, Jack thought as he shook it, but strong and calloused, to be expected since it appeared he did everything needful in his hideaway.
Jack could only shake his head at his willingness to jump to conclusions. Truth be told, he’d been expecting a stereo-typical hillbilly in a flannel shirt with a big beer gut—was he ever an idiot. “You’ve got a beautiful home,” he said instead, and meant it.
“Thank you. Rachael drilled, hammered, mowed, you name it. I’m glad you got here okay, sweetie. It’s getting dark fast. Come inside. I’ll feed you both, then you can tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve at least got a still out back?” Jack asked hopefully.
Gillette Janes laughed. “No, but I’m told my grandmother did.”
SIXTEEN
Slipper Hollow
Monday night
Why is it called Slipper Hollow?” Jack asked as he spooned up the last bite of vegetarian stew. It was loaded with every vegetable under heaven, a recipe he should get for Savich.
Gillette Janes chewed a moment on a saltine cracker. “The story goes that two young lovers met here in the deep of summer when wildflowers carpeted the ground, for even then no trees grew in this hollow. Alas, her father found them one day, shot the boy, hauled off his daughter kicking and screaming to go back to her dead lover. In her struggles, her slipper came off.
“Years later, it was said you could hear her crying for her lost slipper—not her unfortunate dead lover—thus the name attached itself to the land.”
“Any proof of that tale, Uncle Gillette?”
“Not a whiff, as far as I know,” Gillette said. “I’ve never heard her crying for her slipper, and I’ve been here nearly all my life.”
Rachael played with her crystal wineglass. “We’re safe here. No one knows about Slipper Hollow except for a few old-timers in and around Parlow. And none of them would give directions to a stranger.”
“Glad I made the decision to keep the place private,” Gillette said, rising to stack stew bowls in the dishwasher. “After you and your mom moved to Richmond, I even began doing most of my shopping in Heissen’s Dome, about an hour’s drive north of here—people know my face, maybe my name, but not where I live.
“Jack, these people after my girl, it’s doubtful they’ll find her here since she’s not been part of the area for years. So tell me, Rachael, you believe in your heart of hearts