Project Hannibal Kathryn Hoff (best free e book reader TXT) 📖

say a word even though you were sick to your stomach the whole way. You were even polite to all the kids’ nosy questions. You try to smooth things over, even when you’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else.”

“I hoped you didn’t notice.”

Estelle rubbed her back. “I recognize those things because I grew up in a troubled family, too.”

Sera lifted her head. “You mean Gran and Gramps? Did they always fuss and fight?”

“Oh, God, yes. That’s the reason I got out of Louisiana as soon as I could and went away as far as I could. I told Marie she should leave, too, but she never was able to break away.” Estelle stared out at the roiling clouds and drew her windbreaker closer. “One of the things that happens in a troubled home is that the children, the most helpless members of the family, start to feel like they have to be the responsible ones. They try to make everything all right, to calm down the fights, to keep the adults from doing terrible, hurtful things.”

“The grief counselor said something like that. But what about you?” Sera asked. “I wished myself on you. Aren’t I just adding to your problems now?”

Estelle smiled. “That’s my choice. I’d much rather have you with me than worry about you being all alone in Fairbanks. Or, God help you, with my parents. With a little consideration on both our parts, we’ll get by.”

Despite the storm battering the porch roof, Sera began to look a little brighter.

“Now,” Estelle said, “I understand Annie’s sister’s daughter-in-law has left some venison stew for our supper. Let’s go heat it up.”

Yelling came from the upper end of town, too indistinct for Estelle to make out the words. Curious figures came onto porches, peering through the rain.

A man came pelting through the downpour, bare-headed, no poncho or jacket, yelling as he went. “Mudslide! . . . house . . . still inside!”

Porches emptied as men dashed up the sodden street.

“Get my medical bag!” Estelle followed at a run.

CHAPTER 13

Stormy weather

At the homestead, black clouds moved in from the west, hiding the sun. As drops began to fall, everyone crowded into Jerry’s tiny hut.

Luis tried to think of something nice to say. “Compact,” he offered. More like claustrophobic. “More room inside than you’d expect.”

Minnie beamed. “See how Jerry made a loft for the bed? Gives us tons of floor space.”

The room was definitely cramped with four adults and a child. The floor, walls, and roof were all made of plywood, not even varnished. No toilet, other than the woods. The hut provided a bare minimum of shelter for summer, but in winter? Even if the wood hadn’t rotted by winter, it would do nothing to keep out the cold. A small cast-iron woodstove was centered in the room, its steel chimney routed dangerously near the sleeping loft.

There were only two folding chairs, so Luis and Brandon squatted on the floor, trying not to lean against the fragile walls. At least there would be room to stretch out sleeping bags, if they collapsed the chairs and the folding card table and didn’t mind lying on the plywood panel that covered the hole in the ground Minnie used for a larder.

The storm arrived in a howl of wind. A thunder of rain pounded on the roof.

The kid began to cry. Minnie cuddled him, urging him to shush.

As the cabin darkened, Jerry lit a single kerosene lamp. “What about some supper, hon?”

Minnie glanced at the stove. “I guess I could cook some of the veg, but the stove heats the place up so bad.”

“You’ve been so kind,” Brandon said. “Let us provide the meal tonight.” He pulled from his pack four packets of chicken ramen. “Can you boil some water?”

“Oh!” Minnie flushed. “Do you have enough? We don’t want to leave you and Lou short.”

“I don’t think Bran and I will be hiking much longer. With Bigfoot around and all.”

“That’s probably best.” Jerry slouched in his chair, keeping a stern eye on the men. Gift of ramen noodles or not, he seemed to be rethinking his offer of hospitality.

Minnie, however, seemed more eager to socialize. As she boiled water on a butane burner, she asked how they met. Brandon strung out a long story that lasted into everyone slurping up ramen from none-too-clean bowls.

Luis was listening to the wind and rain, straining to hear other sounds. The mammoths had weathered storms and blizzards at Anjou’s base—while the lashing rain and gusts might unsettle them, the animals would be in no danger. But Diamond loved carrots and turnips. He might return to rummage through the garden.

The wind didn’t just howl, it moaned and screamed, driving rain into the west-facing wall and windowpanes like a cloud of monstrous mosquitoes clamoring to get in. The little shack groaned and rattled under the onslaught.

“You were right,” Luis whispered to Brandon. “I’d have hated riding this out in the tent.” Submissive behavior, to keep the peace. Brandon unbent enough to nod.

Through the evening, Minnie read to the kid from a Bible storybook. Brandon kept up a desultory conversation with Jerry about hunting and fishing and how politicians were ruining the country.

The kid whined without pause, setting Luis’s nerves on edge. Jerry’s too, judging from the tension in his shoulders. Luis wondered if that tension would have nudged Jerry into rough discipline if he and Brandon hadn’t been watching. Of course, strangers in the house might be hurting the situation, too. Here, Jerry was the alpha male, bristling at other males in his territory—Luis understood that dynamic very well.

As it grew later, Minnie carried the child up to the loft, whispering comfort to him. Jerry seemed to relax a little with his family out of sight. He began to expound