THE DEVIL’S GATE by Vickie Britton WHISKEY CREEK PRESS www.whiskeycreekpress.com Whiskey Creek Press PO Box 51052 Casper, WY 82605-1052 www.whiskeycreekpress.com Copyright © 2008 by Vickie Britton Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. ISBN 978-1-60313-092-9 Credits Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston Editor: Dave Field a Dedication ~~To Loretta Jackson, a wonderful sister and great writing partner~~ Chapter 1 Since making the forked turn from Bly, I’d counted two cars and seventeen rabbits. There were probably more rabbits crouched hidden in the tall sagebrush on either side of the narrow dirt road; tiny, long-eared shadows caught frozen by my headlights. I veered sharply to the left as one of the living shadows darted toward the Mustang’s spinning wheels, nearly landing myself in a ditch to avoid striking the quivering scrap of ragged gray fur headlong. Highway hypnosis had been on the verge of sinking in. Wide awake, my now-alert eyes scanned darkness. I’d barely noticed how the traffic had thinned since I’d made my last stop for coffee at the all-night grill just outside of Bly. Even the tinny country music that had been my constant companion since I’d parted from the main road was deserting me. The radio continued to roar and squeal with mindless static as I drove along. Impatiently, I turned the knob, ridding myself of the intruding blare. The silence that followed was almost too much to bear. Such silence. A few semesters at the University of Reno had almost made me forget how remote and isolated the Devil’s Gate ranch really was. Brad, of course, had called me. Could it really have been only yesterday? He’d been upset. I could imagine him at the other end of the line, flecks of dark glittering in his 1 tawny-gold eyes as he barked at me over the telephone. “Anna, you must come home.” “Home? What are you talking about, Brad? The semester just started...” “They need you, Anna. Alice needs you. Tavas is ill. Tavas is...he’s...” Brad had never been one to stumble over words, but he was stumbling then. “Dying?” I’d stepped back from the phone as if the electrical cord had been shooting out white-hot sparks. Tavas hadn’t looked well several months ago, the last time I’d ventured home. Too pale, I’d thought at the time. And he’d been using the cane again, the one with the carved silver head. Suddenly it all fell into place. The letters from Alice, the subtle questions about when I planned to come back for another visit. It seemed clear to me now, crystal clear, as it would’ve been long ago if I hadn’t been immersed in my own private little world of registration cards and scheduling. “I never thought...” Tears were brimming in my eyes. I couldn’t finish the sentence, didn’t really know what I’d planned to say. “You’ll come home, then?” “Of course. You know Tavas has always been like a father to me. I’ll be there as soon as possible.” “I told Alice to expect you Thursday.” “But...that’s the day after tomorrow.” “I could come down after you myself.” The determination in Brad’s voice betrayed the seriousness of the situation. “No, Brad. I’ll manage.” Somehow, I had. It was now late Wednesday night and I’d accomplished the impossible. I had sublet my tiny 2 apartment, had arranged an indefinite leave of absence from my part-time job and school, had packed my meager belongings into the trunk of the old Mustang that had once been Brad’s. And now here I was, half a day early, at the rutted, forked turn-off to the Devil’s Gate. Specters surrounded me, dark, windblown junipers etched sharply against a restless sky. I crossed the cattle guard and onto our property. I could see the broken fence now, rusty sign hanging at an angle in the wind. Beyond, the jagged twin rocks rose high and bare above the cracked earth. “Like the gates to hell”, Tavas had always joked. The car moved upward on the trail, winding its way into the heart of the canyons where the faint lights of the ranch glimmered, still some distance away. It had been a long time since I’d come home for more than a brief visit. Not since Brad told me Ivan had returned. A trapped butterfly fluttered inside of me at the thought of him, leaving me shaken by the overwhelming strength of my own emotions. Only Brad had guessed the real reason why I’d stayed away so much lately, burying myself in my studies and my work in Reno. Brad and I had practically grown up together. I’d come to the ranch an orphan: the two of us had become as close as brother and sister. Brad knew my thoughts, my feelings, but it was Ivan who’d stolen my heart. Ivan, with his wavy dark hair, lean Gypsy looks, and hot-blooded Basque temperament. The handsome fairy-tale prince whose short and erratic visits to the ranch during my growing-up years had filled my heart with so many foolish dreams. Deep inside, I think I must have known even then that nothing would ever come of them, that I was little more to Ivan than a pesky, rather incorrigible child. 3 Don’t think about him, I scolded myself, but it hurt. His sudden marriage to that sultry, unstable beauty with her pouting lips and scornful eyes marked the brutal ending of my childhood fantasy. I concentrated on my surroundings. On either side of the road barren rocks gave off a muted, purplish hue. I’d grown up here, yet something about dusk still made me uneasy. Maybe it was the night sounds. The whistle of the wind through hollow canyons, the sudden scream of a bobcat or the lonesome wail of a coyote brought a child’s fears to mind, whispered tales told only in the well-lighted circle of the bunk-houses. Few of the hired men had not claimed to have seen the Sorguinak flying high over the canyons in the darkness. Even Guillermo, our foreman and Tavas’s closest friend, believed that the Cult of Akerra existed, found evidence of devil-worship in spots of dried blood and tallow; faint marks that might have been pentagrams etched on stone in secluded clearings. And hadn’t Tavas himself spotted the horns of the black he-goat Akerra one night, just on the edge of the cliffs? Whether he was serious or not, I never could tell. One could never tell what went on in the mind of a Basque. Goose bumps rose on my arms at the thought of enormous, shaggy Akerra stamping his hooves impatiently, watching me with wild and red-rimmed eyes from some obscure point high in the canyon. Nightwalkers with their skeletal bodies and huge, glowing eyes now seemed to stare at me from the sides of the road as I drove along. Dark shapes, hunched in between the boulders, crouched in waiting. Twisted trees became witches, pointing at me with wild arms, warning me to turn around and go back to Reno. How foolish. I was twenty-three now, hardly a wide-eyed, impressionable child. Yet as I drove the last half-mile, 4 my reluctance mounted. The demons of my childhood I could manage. It was reality that made me grip the steering wheel so tightly my fingers ached. How was I going to face Ivan—and his new wife? The moment of weakness passed as quickly as it had come. I’d stayed away too long and the circumstances demanding my return were anything but pleasant. Yet I had a right to be here as much as they did. I kept my eyes focused upon the dim light of the porch, a beacon of warmth for the traveler who was not only physically tired, but tired in spirit. A familiar catch lodged in my throat as I sighted the old white house nestled in between the jagged cliffs. A sweet voice within me chanted, Home, you’re finally going home. * * * * I could see Brad standing in the doorway, peering anxiously through the sagging porch screen as I parked the car and began walking toward the house. He ran out to greet me. “Anna.” Then he was pulling me to him in an affectionate bear hug, ruffling my dark hair teasingly, as he’d done years ago when I was a child. Brad always had a way of making me feel safe, secure. For a moment I rested my head against his broad chest. Then we broke apart, suddenly self-conscious, aware we were no longer children. “Alice has gone to bed,” Brad told me as we stepped inside. He paused, then added, being careful to avoid my eyes, “Tavas is sleeping. Let’s have some coffee.” “I want to see him, Brad,” I insisted. “Coffee first. There’s plenty of time.” A fresh pot was waiting on the stove as if made especially for me. I could smell its bitter, welcoming aroma as we moved into the kitchen. I stood for a moment at the doorway, suddenly 5 feeling a helplessness, a sense of loss. The old checkered tablecloth, almost a landmark of the Haspura kitchen, was gone. It looked like Ivan’s new wife, Colleen, had done some remodeling. “Strong and black with just a pinch of sugar,” Brad said as he shoved my favorite chipped ironstone mug toward me. I stared down at its reassuring clover-leaf pattern, glad for something familiar. “It’s so good to have you back.” A weary darkness drifted through his amber eyes. “For a while, I was afraid you wouldn’t show...
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