Page 24 of Hide My Heart
“They hurt. I’m sick. I might have breast cancer.” I shake my head furiously. “That’s why I came home. I have big, hard lumps in my breasts.”
He squeezes again and narrows his eyes. “You have breast cancer? I thought it was your grandmother who has cancer.”
I gasp and move back, brushing his hands off me. Blinking hard and swallowing, I sputter, “We both do. Can’t you tell I’m dying? Maybe you better let me go, because what will you do if I die here?”
“Throw you out in the hole with the coyotes.”
He’s talking about the pit he digs each fur season where he disposes of the carcasses he doesn’t eat. The ground is frozen right now, so he can leave the meat exposed until springtime.
“You can’t do that.” I back down the hallway from him. “You have to give me a proper burial.”
“I will. Underneath the coyotes and foxes and the big bad wolf.” He guffaws, seeming to think it’s funny, and I can tell he’s in a good mood. He’s got his valuable wolf pelt and his woman back under his thumb.
Or so he thinks.
I shudder and walk unopposed to the garage. I figure if he wants to stop me, he will, but all the talk about cancer and dying seems to have dimmed his ardor—for now.
The bigger question is who told him about Grandma having cancer and how did he know I was on my way back home? Has he been hanging around Divine gossiping?
I’m not waiting around to find out.
The first thing I do when I get into the garage is to find a wrench. I disconnect the water heater from the gas pipe and let the gas fizz into the garage.
Since Hunter hasn’t come after me, he’s probably sitting in the kitchen polishing off the rest of the fried beaver and drinking another beer.
It’s a shame to let the wolf go to waste, so I shove its pelt, the foxes, and the two beavers into a garbage bag and exit out the side door. I shut it so the gas doesn’t escape.
My heart pounding through my chest, I lower myself onto my hands and knees and crawl below the kitchen window. I don’t dare peek at what Hunter is doing.
When I clear the kitchen window, I grab my suitcase from behind the woodpile and pull it into the carport, nervously darting glances back at the kitchen.
It’s too bad Hunter has no television, or he would for sure be sacked out in front of it. The side door opens, and I duck behind his truck, hoping he doesn’t see my footprints on the dirty, crusted walkway.
The sun sets early up in these parts, and the tall fir trees cast deep shadows. Will my luck hold?
I hold my breath and pray, asking God to make me invisible, to help me get away, and to let Hunter go back into the house.
He looks around, back and forth, as if he sees something suspicious, then steps out in only his shirtsleeves, no jacket.
I stay as quiet as I possibly can, frozen behind the truck. If he would look underneath, he’d for sure see my suitcase and the garbage bag of pelts.
He’s whistling to himself and grabs a pile of logs.
Good. Making a fire should keep him occupied.
As soon as he shuts the door, I quietly open the driver’s side door and put my suitcase and the bag of pelts onto the passenger seat.
I buckle up.
This is it. I take one, two, three deep breaths. Then turn on the ignition.
It cranks and cranks, and my heart is racing, panicking.
Please. Please. Please start.
I pump the accelerator as the side door opens and Hunter flies out toward the carport.
The engine turns over and starts. I slam the driver’s door right as he reaches it and jam my foot on the accelerator.
