The Mill River Recluse Read online

  He looked out the window toward Mary’s mansion on the hill. The darkness and the whirling snow prevented him from seeing the big marble home, but he knew it was there, overlooking Mill River as it had for decades. He closed his eyes. He knew the history of that house, the joy and the suffering, especially the suffering, which had taken place and still took place within it. He knew Mary was there, and wondered if she were sleeping, as he had left her, or awake looking down upon him. Maybe her soul had already departed.

  “Dear girl, may you finally be at peace,” he whispered, and looked once more into the storm toward the mansion on the hill.

  Chapter 2

  They were flying.

  On a bright Saturday morning in June 1940, the refined drone of a Lincoln Zephyr coupe compromised the serenity of Vermont’s Green Mountains. After a few minutes, the black, sleek source of the noise appeared. The engine of the car powered it effortlessly along the winding country road. The wind whipped through the open windows of the car, through the blond hair of father and son, Stephen and Patrick McAllister.

  The calmness of rural Vermont was in stark contrast to the events occurring in other parts of the world. Across the Atlantic, the Axis powers were bound by a common goal of world domination. Nazi armies had overrun Europe, forcing France into submission. Britain was evacuating soldiers from European countries at a frenzied pace. But these events were an ocean away and, for the moment, even farther from the thoughts of the men in the Lincoln coupe.

  The father and son were the second and third generations of a family established in Vermont some seventy years earlier. The vast mineral deposits of the state, especially the exceptional white marble, had lured a steady stream of immigrants to quarries in the Green Mountains. Hungry for jobs and new opportunities, Italians, Swedes, Finns, Scotsmen, Irishmen, and others followed newly-constructed railroads north to West Rutland. They eagerly took on the exhausting and dangerous work of cutting marble.

  One of those immigrants had been Patrick’s great-grandfather, a young Irishman named Kieran McAllister. He had crossed the Atlantic in cramped quarters in the belly of a Cunard steamship and had endured working as a quarry laborer for two years without serious injury. With decency, common sense, and a little luck, he had earned the respect of the quarry owner and a promotion to the position of foreman. The increased salary had enabled him to join a group of men in opening a new quarry. Eventually, he had established a marbleworks in Rutland, where quarries could have blocks of marble cut or carved before their shipment to buyers.

  The marbleworks had been good to the McAllister family. Having been the first of its kind in the area during the most prosperous days of Vermont’s marble industry, the business had made Kieran a wealthy man. Through fifty years, World War I, and the Great Depression, the demand for marble had remained steady and had even increased at times. Now, Kieran had been gone for two decades, but the McAllisters still enjoyed the fruits of the prosperity that he had sown, as evidenced by his grandson’s penchant for new automobiles.

  Stephen looked over at Patrick and grinned. “She handles beautifully,” he said, patting the steering wheel. “V-12 under the hood, hydraulic brakes. She’s a keeper.”

  The new Lincoln was only the latest in a long line of expensive automobiles that Stephen had purchased. He had five at the moment. When he tired of a particular model, he traded it for whichever new car caught his eye. On Saturdays when Patrick was home from school, Stephen and his son took a car from his current collection and drove through the countryside southeast of Rutland County. Now that Patrick was through college, he looked forward to their outings as routine weekly escapes.

  “Maybe I’ll see for myself how she handles on the way back,” Patrick hinted.

  “What, you mean you don’t want to ride your graduation present home?” Stephen asked.

  Stephen glanced at Patrick and was overwhelmed with pride. His son, a Harvard graduate, capable, refined, a true gentleman. Some day, after Stephen retired, Patrick would assume the helm of McAllister Marbleworks. Until then, they would work side by side to ensure the continued success of the family business.

  On this morning, their drive was more than a leisurely jaunt. Stephen and Patrick were headed to a farm on the far side of the town of Mill River to select a horse as part of Patrick’s graduation present. Mill River was located about eight miles southeast of Rutland, where Kieran had established the Marbleworks. While Rutland had become a bustling center of commerce, thanks to the marble industry and the railroad, Mill River remained a sleepy, quaint throwback to the early days of New England.

  The winding road finally cleared the green hills and straightened out, and Stephen turned the Lincoln down the main street of the town. They glided past a number of small houses, a hardware store, a post office, a beauty salon, and the town hall. A stone church stood at the end of the street on the right. The road curved sharply, then passed through a covered bridge that spanned the river for which the town was named.

  Stephen couldn’t understand why his son found horses so alluring. He did know that Patrick had taken up riding when he arrived in Cambridge, Massachusetts his freshman year and that many of his son’s classmates, some from the most respected families in New England, were avid equestrians. To Stephen, horses were dirty, unpredictable, and more trouble than they were worth. Certainly, a horse could never compete with any car in his personal collection.

  Still, he had never denied his son anything and was not about to deny him the thing that he seemed to love most. When Patrick arrived home after his senior year, Stephen had surprised him on a drive just outside Rutland. Stephen had purchased several acres of pasture. The contractors he hired had just put the finishing touches on a stable on the property. All that they needed were some horses. Patrick would select them, of course. He had told his father that first he wanted a Morgan and a Thoroughbred. They would select the Morgan this morning.

  “Look, there it is,” Stephen said, pointing. Ahead was a small sign by the side of the road that read, “Samuel E. Hayes. Morgans.” An arrow on the sign indicated that they should turn right, and he swung the black car onto a narrow dirt road. After a mile or so, the road opened into a clearing surrounded by sugar maples. An old pickup truck was parked beside an enormous weathered red barn. Acres of pasture enclosed by a split-rail fence stretched beyond the barn. A footpath faded up a hill toward a small farmhouse.

  Stephen and Patrick stepped out of the car, frowning. “What a dump,” Patrick muttered as they looked around at the run-down farm. A small herd of horses grazed at the far end of the pasture, and a short whinny echoed from the barn, but any human inhabitants of the farm were nowhere in sight.

  “Well, we’re here, anyway,” Stephen said. “When I called yesterday, Hayes said it’d be fine if we came by this morning. Wait here. I’ll go up to the house.” He put on his hat and snapped his suit jacket to straighten it, then started up the footpath. He looked rather out of place, a man dressed in a fine three-piece suit and wingtips walking up a dirt path toward what was little more than a shack.

  Patrick walked over to the fence and crossed his arms over the top rail. A gate in the fence was padlocked. The barn door was open and inside he could see long rows of stalls. He looked up at his father, picking his way along the path to the house, and grew impatient. He was eager to see if there were actually any decent horses in such a shoddy structure, and it was a simple matter to climb over the fence.

  Patrick stepped tentatively into the barn. The familiar smell of horse manure and hay hung in the air. It was dark, especially coming in from the bright morning sun. Still, Patrick could see the rafters and the loft stocked with bales of hay. An occasional creaking came from above his head, and Patrick grew nervous at the thought of the old roof collapsing. A pitchfork and wheelbarrow leaned against another stack of straw bales at the end of the barn. The wooden walls and beams were rough and unfinished. The ancient barn was hardly the neatly painted stable at Harvard, but at least the smell w
as the same, and it reassured him.

  Two bright blue eyes watched him from a small crack between the straw bales at the end of the barn.

  There was a tack room immediately to his left. The three saddles inside were well-oiled, but worn. An assortment of bridles and halters hung from pegs on the walls, and several brushes and curry combs rested on a shelf.

  Across from the tack room was a large area filled with bags of feed and bales of hay. A large Mason jar containing sugar cubes was nestled on top of an open bag of oats. Patrick unscrewed the lid and shook a few cubes into his hand.

  The stalls at the front of the barn were empty, but he could see several horses in stalls toward the rear of the barn. As he walked down the aisle, he heard a low nicker. A horse in a stall immediately to his left pushed its head over the door of a stall, perked up its ears, and snorted. The horse was young, maybe about three, Patrick thought, but its build already evidenced pure bloodlines. He walked closer. The horse tossed its forelock out of its eyes and eagerly accepted the sugar cubes. It was a blood-bay with fine, straight legs and deep shoulders. Its rich, red coat blended gradually into black legs and contrasted sharply with a thick black mane and tail. The horse nuzzled Patrick’s hand for more sugar, and, finding none, snorted again and struck its front hoof against the stall door. “You’re a feisty one,” Patrick said, and rubbed the colt’s forehead. He smiled grudgingly to himself. The old barn certainly belied the value of this inhabitant.

  A sudden thump came from behind the straw stack at the end of the aisle, and the pitchfork fell to the floor.

  “Hello?” Patrick asked, startled. “Is someone there?”

  Silence.

  “Patrick!” a voice called from outside the barn. He turned and saw his father and another man standing in the doorway, watching him.

  “Son, this is Sam Hayes,” his father said as Patrick came over to them.

  The stout horse farmer wore dirty overalls and a wide-brimmed hat pushed back off his forehead. His hair was just beginning to show strands of gray, but the deep crevices in his face made Patrick think that he was older than his barn.

  “Mr. Hayes. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Patrick said, extending his hand. “I’ve heard that your Morgans are the finest around.”

  “Pleasure’s mine,” Mr. Hayes replied, clasping his hand and obviously pleased by Patrick’s compliment. “I don’t raise as many as I used to, just a few a year now. Quality over quantity, you might say. Plus, there hasn’t been much of a market for ‘em for a few years now. People’ve been pretty hard up.” He paused a moment, looking at Patrick’s fine attire with hopeful eyes. “Your Pop here tells me that you’re the horseman of the family. Well, you can’t go wrong with a Morgan. ‘Course I’m sure you know that. They’re the sturdiest horses you could ever have. Smart, too. An’ their temperament’s usually steady an’ sensible. All my Morgans’ pedigrees go back to Justin Morgan, the foundation stallion. I break ‘em in myself, teach ‘em manners, an’ I don’t sell ‘em ‘til they’re four. Don’t believe a horse is full grown ‘til it’s four, so I keep ‘em ‘til then to be sure they all get a proper start.”

  “You said you had several horses for sale?” Stephen asked.

  “Yep, there are four, two colts an’ two fillies.”

  “I’d prefer a colt,” Patrick said.

  “I’ve got ‘em all in the barn there,” Mr. Hayes said. “I’ll take each one out separately, so you can see how they’re built an’ ride ‘em, if you want. There’s a small paddock on the other side of the barn.” He went into the tack room and emerged carrying one of the old saddles and a saddle pad. “If you could take this around the side,” he continued, handing the tack to Patrick, “I’ll bring the first one out for you.”

  Stephen and Patrick turned and walked around the barn to a circular training paddock adjacent to the pasture. Content to let his son handle the selection, Stephen leaned awkwardly against the fence. Mr. Hayes came out of a rear door of the barn leading a chestnut horse behind him. Patrick set the saddle over the top of the fence and looked closely at the horse. It was a beautiful animal, with conformation much like that of the blood-bay he had seen in the barn. This horse was tan, with a bright white blaze down its forehead and nose.

  The horse wore a bridle with a long rein, and Mr. Hayes stepped to the center of the paddock with the rein in his hand. He shook it gently. The horse began to trot in a circle around him. Its movement was fluid and smooth. A chirrup from Mr. Hayes prompted the horse to canter, tossing its head and swishing its tail. After a few minutes, Mr. Hayes stopped the horse, and Patrick came over to it.

  Mr. Hayes held the colt’s head up so that Patrick could examine its overall conformation. Patrick ran his hands down its neck, sides, and legs, and picked up each of the horse’s feet. The colt was obviously accustomed to being handled. After waiting patiently until Mr. Hayes released its head and it once again could stand on four legs, the horse turned its attention to the grass growing in the paddock.

  “You want to saddle him?” Mr. Hayes asked Patrick.

  “Could I see the other one first?” Patrick responded. He was thinking of the blood-bay colt he had seen in the barn.

  “Sure thing.” Mr. Hayes led the colt outside the paddock. After looping the end of the reins around the fence, he walked back into the barn. He returned with the second four-year-old, not the blood-bay, but a dark brown horse. Patrick again watched as Mr. Hayes worked the horse in a circle within the paddock. This colt, too, had impeccable conformation and appeared to be trained as well as the first. Having refused a ride on the chestnut, he felt obliged to saddle this one. He rode the horse several times around the paddock. The ride was smooth and effortless, and the colt obeyed all of his commands without hesitation. Still, with this horse and the chestnut, there was something missing.

  He dismounted and handed the reins to Mr. Hayes.

  “They’re both fine animals,” Patrick told him. He paused. “I couldn’t help but notice another colt in the barn earlier, a bay? Is that horse for sale?”

  “He’s a three-year-old, nah, three an’ a half, really,” Mr. Hayes replied. “He’s a spirited little devil. I kept him in his stall this morning so I could work with him this afternoon. I just started him under the saddle, an’ I can already tell he’s going to be a handful. Not mean, mind you, but definitely spirited. I wouldn’t sell him until he’s four, like the others. But I can bring him out for a look, if you’d like.”

  “I would like to see him,” Patrick said. He looked over at his father for a second opinion, but Stephen, oblivious to their discussion, was gingerly stroking the nose of the chestnut tied outside the paddock.

  “Mary, could you bring out the bay?” Mr. Hayes called toward the barn. He began to unbuckle the saddle on the brown colt. “Mary’s my daughter,” he explained. “She’s pretty shy, doesn’t really get involved with the sellin’ much, but otherwise, she helps out quite a bit with the horses. She’s even better with some of ‘em than I am, an’ the bay in there really behaves for her.”

  Patrick had neither seen nor heard anyone except Mr. Hayes since they had arrived at the farm. Then he remembered the noise in the barn. Apparently, he had not been alone.

  A loud whinny captured their attention, and the blood-bay appeared at the barn door. The colt was tall for a Morgan and almost completely obscured Mary as she walked on the other side of the horse. She kept a firm hand on the lead of the halter as she led the colt to the paddock.

  The bay colt was even more spectacular in the morning sun than he had looked in the dim light inside the barn. The colt seemed to know it, too. He tossed his head repeatedly, shied sideways, as if to flaunt his mahogany beauty. They came closer, through the gate of the paddock. If Patrick had looked closely, he would have noticed a certain spark in the deep brown eyes of the colt, that something that had been missing from the previous two. But despite his fine eye for horses, he didn’t notice the spark at all.

  He couldn’t tear his
gaze from Mary.

  She led the colt into the paddock and stood almost motionless beside it, still holding fast to the lead. Patrick heard Mr. Hayes telling him about the bay, but the voice was little more than a monotonous hum occasionally punctuated by a few intelligible words.

  “—an’ he’s got one of the finest heads I’ve ever seen on a Morgan, deep-set eyes, an’ a fine arch in his neck—”

  Patrick nodded, shifting his gaze to the colt, but his green eyes were drawn back to Mary. She had dark brown, almost black hair. Most of it was pulled into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, but a few tendrils fluttered around her temples. Her cheekbones were high and delicate, under fair skin tinged with the palest pink. She looked up at him with blue eyes rimmed by the longest black lashes he had ever seen. He got an especially good look at the lashes, because Mary averted her eyes downward only a second after he looked into them. She turned her face toward the bay colt. Her unobtrusive manner made her easy to overlook, but once noticed, she was exquisite.

  “—straight legs, an’ you’ll notice that his build is just as good as the four-year-olds, an’ he might end up a bigger horse, over fifteen hands when he’s full grown—”

  Mary wore a gray cotton blouse and old work pants cinched with a brown leather belt. Her pants were tucked into scuffed riding boots that came up to her knees. Patrick hardly noticed her attire. He was much more interested in what was beneath her clothing. He saw only the small of her throat exposed at the top of her shirt, the outline of her breasts, the slim waist hidden beneath the belt. She was about five and a half feet tall, but her petite frame made her appear much smaller. Such fine breeding, he thought.

  Aside from Mary’s beauty, though, there was something else about her that appealed to Patrick: vulnerability. Her meekness would be apparent to anyone, but to a man of society who could sum up everything about a person from a thirty-second introduction, and to whom the exercise of power over another was recreation, it was an invitation for pleasure. Patrick was a hawk that had just spotted a sparrow.