On the Hillwilla Road

Melanie Forde

Description

This follow-up novel to Hillwilla explores how disparate characters can grow to need and depend on one another In Hillwilla, Beatrice Desmond, a former Bostonian Ivy Leaguer, found herself in midlife on a llama farm in remote West Virginia. Clara Buckhalter, a troubled young girl, drew Beatrice out of her lonely existence. Now, Clara attends a different school at Beatrice s urging, and finds herself involved with two new friends who are confusing and intimidating yet caring. Beatrice s tantalizing friendship and romance with the dashing, wealthy, and extremely handsome Tanner Fordyce discover new and deeper connections though they continue to spar and infuriate each other. And Beatrice s farm replete with temperamental llamas; Ralph, her loyal English setter; and the occasional wild critter further serves as an oasis of refuge and healing. This sequel explores how such disparate individuals can grow to need and depend on one another, even as Beatrice finds herself confronted with a new, life-altering choice.

Sujets

• Literary
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 24 juillet 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780990808992
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

A Novel
by Melanie Forde
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
ONE: The Thrill of the Hunt
TWO: Handling the Holidays
THREE: Not Exactly Norman Rockwell
FOUR: Hunting for a Game Plan
FIVE: Bonding Over Bimbos
SIX: Quirk Management
SEVEN: You Gotta Love Karma
EIGHT: Awkward Deceptions
NINE: Fitting In, Sticking Out
TEN: Sounds of a Winter Night
ELEVEN: Sparks-or Static?
TWELVE: Revisitations
THIRTEEN: Hallooing the House
FOURTEEN: Just a Seneca County Saturday
FIFTEEN: Dishing the Dirt
SIXTEEN: Misalignment
SEVENTEEN: Text and Subtext
EIGHTEEN: Worrisome Relationships
NINETEEN: Teen Trinity
TWENTY: Marlboro Impressions
TWENTY-ONE: Dreamscape and an Inbox Message
TWENTY-TWO: Things Seen and Unseen
TWENTY-THREE: In and Out of Comfort Zones
TWENTY-FOUR: A Talent for Taking Charge
TWENTY-FIVE: Blessed Insults
TWENTY-SIX: Anticipation
TWENTY-SEVEN: The Next Level
TWENTY-EIGHT: On the Hillwilla Road
TWENTY-NINE: A Cup of Sunshine
THIRTY: Peep-Toed Makeover
THIRTY-ONE: Not So Pretty in Pink
THIRTY-TWO: Beyond the Fence
THIRTY-THREE: Invasion of the Body Snatchers
THIRTY-FOUR: Heavy-Handedness
THIRTY-FIVE: Exchanging Smiles
THIRTY-SIX: Miata Musings
THIRTY-SEVEN: The Three Dwarfs
THIRTY-EIGHT: Ladies Who Lunch
THIRTY-NINE: Spreading Cheer
FORTY: Mad Germans, Parasites, and Intrigue
FORTY-ONE: Fantasies
FORTY-TWO: The Jokester Gods of Weather
FORTY-THREE: Blizzard
FORTY-FOUR: Dysfunctional Family Snapshots
FORTY-FIVE: Harbingers
FORTY-SIX: Humbling Experiences
FORTY-SEVEN: A Hectic and Thankful April
FORTY-EIGHT: The Crux of the Matter
FORTY-NINE: Enlightenment
FIFTY: Alien Travels
FIFTY-ONE: Pairings
FIFTY-TWO: Blue Hills, Blue Rocks
FIFTY-THREE: Homecoming
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
On the Hillwilla Road
By Melanie Forde
Published by D Street Books
A division of Mountain Lake Press
© 2015 Melanie Forde-All rights reserved
ISBNS:
Epub 978-1-4956087-5-9
Mobi 978-1-4956087-6-6
PDF 978-1-4956087-7-3
Published in the United States of America
Ebook design by Mary Elizabeth
Original design by Michael Hentges
Cover photo by the author
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to real persons living or dead is unintentional and purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced for any purpose-except for brief excerpts used in reviews-without the express written consent of the author.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
With the exception of White Sulphur Springs, Beaver, and Charleston, all of the West Virginia localities mentioned in this book are fictitious. Although “Seneca” figures in many place names in West Virginia, the state has no “Seneca County,” but that mythical locale has much in common, for good and ill, with many a deeply wooded, seriously mountainous, and amazingly isolated county in southeastern West Virginia.
To Lawrie, the archetype of resourcefulness, who preferred the road less traveled
PROLOGUE

The golden eagle coasting on the updrafts rising from Beatrice Desmond’s forty mostly wooded acres surveys a landscape little influenced by man. No, the black walnuts and maples and sycamores far below did not coexist with the indigenous people who occasionally hunted and trapped but established no permanent settlements in this deeply crenellated section of the Allegheny Mountains. Nonetheless, the trees are old. Although logging is an ongoing industry in other parts of Seneca County, these particular hardwoods in southeastern West Virginia have stood undisturbed for many decades.
In spring, shade-loving morels and pungent wild leeks flourish beneath the trees. In summer, bear cubs exercise their claws on the bark. In fall, randy bucks leave traces of antler velvet on the trunks. In winter, legions of dark-eyed juncos hunker down on the low branches, just at the edge of the deep wood, to wait out the snow squalls before carbo-loading anew on dried seeds. The woods teem with life. Little of it is human.
The satellites that orbit far, far above the trees can spot all sorts of earth-based minutiae in exacting detail. But even their sharp eyes cannot penetrate the dense hardwoods-not even in winter-to say nothing of the full canopy months from May to early October. Google Earth is able to zero in, however, on the pasture lying in the lowest section of the Desmond farm. The eye-in-the-sky can make out the red barn at the pasture’s southwestern corner and, upslope, the small white farmhouse. Google Earth can identify the even smaller cabin, standing about one thousand feet south of the main house and serving as Beatrice’s office. And where the creek cuts through open land, it shows up on overhead photographs, as does the small pond fed by springs and mountain runoff.
But more than thirty acres of Desmond woodland remain inscrutable, blending seamlessly with hundreds and hundreds of surrounding forest acres. So many of the daily struggles that play out beneath the trees-competitions for sunlight, water, food, shelter, territory, and mates-are hidden from both the golden eagle and the orbiting satellites, much as the daily struggles of Seneca County residents remain invisible to the culture that prevails in the rest of America.
Not surprising, most of the humans occupying this remote, rugged landscape were born here, like their parents and grandparents before them. Beatrice Desmond, born and raised in Boston, is an exception.
ONE: The Thrill of the Hunt

It was an ideal morning for deer hunting. Two inches of powdery snow made for easy tracking, and the already rising temperature promised some comfort for the hunter, especially after the wisps of fog evaporated.
On this day after Thanksgiving, entire businesses had been shut down so workers could indulge their passion for buck season. Throughout Seneca County, pickups were tucked just off the road. Their owners had long since disappeared into the brush.
Rodney Madsen was among them. Before first light, he was already ensconced in his chosen tree stand. He had spotted the structure several weeks earlier on a five-hundred-acre, heavily wooded property. Its owner, Abel Sharp, was now too old to police the land.
Like most West Virginia males, Rodney had been exposed to hunting at an early age. Although competent enough, he had never understood the thrill that stirred the blood of so many of his counterparts. But as a well-respected businessman, the owner of a tractor dealership in nearby Marlboro County, he had to project the correct persona. Because most of his employees and most of his clients were avid deer hunters, Rodney feigned similar enthusiasm.
This Friday morning, however, he had other prey in mind.
Always aware of his image, Rodney had brought along the appropriate gear. If any passersby happened to spot him walking into the woods, they would have seen a middle-aged man in camo, with a .444 lever-action Marlin slung over his shoulder and a four-inch Gerber knife sheathed at his belt. Observers would have taken him for a typical hunter, prepared to shoot and field-dress a buck. He even carried a valid hunting license in his wallet.
For Rodney, however, the most important gear was a pair of Orion binoculars he wore around his neck. They had exceptional light-gathering capabilities, essential for a dim morning like this. And they covered a good range, with a minimum of image-wobble.
It was now just a matter of patience. Rodney had a boatload of patience.
He was waiting for Clara to stir. The only good thing about his stepdaughter living with that annoying Desmond woman was the location of her property. It was just across the road from the neglected Sharp acreage. The old tree stand currently housing Rodney was oriented away from the road and away from the Desmond farm. But Rodney had only to remove one of the back slats to get a decent view of Beatrice’s house. His tinkering made the stand only a tad less stable.
From his earlier reconnaissance trips, Rodney knew the woman kept late hours. Witch hours. Her lights were often on until two in the morning. Rodney was grateful Clara had not been corrupted by such wayward habits. The early-rising teenager still had a chance of growing up a proper Christian. She would have a better chance, of course, with the right paternal guidance, Rodney thought, wishing yet again he could fill that role.
He reflected briefly on the disappointment some months back when his wife had miscarried his child. He had so hoped for a daughter. The pregnancy was the main reason for marrying Charyce Trask, Clara’s mother, in the first place. He would compensate now by keeping an eye on his stepdaughter, even if Charyce no longer had charge of the girl, even if a court had declared Mike Buckhalter the sole custodial parent.
And the good Lord knows, that father of Clara’s ain’t worth a bucket of warm spit.
Finally, the light switched on in the bathroom. Rodney had figured out there was only one bathroom in the tiny upstairs. Clara and Beatrice apparently shared it.
Good, the light is staying on.
That meant the occupant of the bathroom was almost certainly Clara. The woman might get up at this early hour for a pit stop but was unlikely to linger. The window was clouding up, a sure sign someone was in the shower.
Little Clara is cleansing herself, God bless her!
Rodney prayed the bathroom was equipped with a fan to clear the steam. Otherwise, his carefully planned mission to check on his little girl would be for naught. He just needed to make sure she was all right. He needed to make sure she was still pure.
Rodney’s prayer was answered. The bathroom mist dissipated. He could see someone moving toward the sink, just within his line of sight. At this distance, the binoculars’ focus was shaky but manageable. He could make out the back of a towel-wrapped head. But nothing covered the body.
Rodney’s excitement grew. Sooner or later, Clara would turn around to reach for a towel, to search for her robe-and show her