Plague Cult Read Online Free Page B

reserved. He glanced sideways and saw her serene profile.
    A healer’s composure was a daunting thing. He’d seen them hold onto that professional, detached demeanor through hellish attacks and their aftermath, moving among survivors, healing, comforting and reassuring their patients. They hid their own feelings.
    Shawn frowned. It wasn’t as if he wore his own heart on his sleeve, but Ruth’s distance bothered him. With her…his instincts told him that no matter how she might be trained to behave in a crisis, in ordinary life she ought to be more involved. Volatile. Heck, it was a cliché, but the woman had red hair. She ought to be louder.
    Ruth sighed faintly, turning her head to look at something he’d just sped past.
    He glanced in the rear view mirror. They’d crossed a bridge, but it wasn’t as if the bridge looked like much. What had caught her attention? “We’re nearly at Bideer,” he broke the silence.
    “Just crossed the Bideer River,” she answered. “It winds away down, but we’ll catch up with it in a few miles. Or we would if we drove through town. I thought…” Her voice faded, then strengthened. “The house needs to be opened up and aired. If we do that, first, then we can go back into town and buy some food, cleaning supplies and anything else we need. And tell people we’re here. We can eat an early dinner at my family’s diner.”
    He was curious to learn her family ran a diner, but time would show him that. “Sounds like a plan. You’ll have to give me directions to your house.”
    “About a mile, then take the road to the right. River Road.”
    “I assume it leads to Bideer River?”
    “Yes. The river forms the southern boundary of my land.”
    “How much land do you have?” He indicated for the turn off.
    “A bit over thirty acres.”
    He whistled. “Space to breathe.”
    She smiled. “I like it.”
    The leaves of the trees that lined the country road were changing color. They lacked the dramatic fall colors of the north east, but the softer golden tones had their own charm, especially back-dropped by the uncompromising green of pine trees.
    “Do people hunt around here?” he asked.
    “Not on my land. I’ve had it sign-posted. But Daddy does. He’s a farmer and the deer bother him. I don’t like the sound of guns.” Bad memories haunted her voice before she banished them. “We’re nearly at the house.” She leaned forward, and he slowed down. “The driveway is just past those oaks.”
    He saw an old mailbox, leaning drunkenly, nearly rusted out, and turned in past the oaks. And there he stopped, the truck’s motor idling. “That is not what I expected.”
    The trees had hidden the house from their approach, but now he saw it set well back from the road and enclosed by a fence even more decrepit than the mailbox. But none of that mattered. The house triumphed over the dilapidation and neglect that surrounded it.
    “Rose House,” Ruth said softly. “It’s Queen Anne style.”
    He’d noticed. The turret to one side and the ornamentation stuck all over, like frosting on a wedding cake, kind of proclaimed the house’s style.
    “It needs repainting,” she said.
    “Big job.”
    She laughed. “I’m not suggesting you make that your cover story.”
    He liked her laughter. Slowly, he let the truck roll forward. “How’s the roof?”
    “Good. I had it repaired in a couple of places, but the roofer was surprised how solid it was. The house was built in 1894. The windows are good and none of the wood has rotted.”
    He parked the truck on the gravel driveway by the porch steps. Weeds poked through the gravel. They were brown after a long summer and going to seed. With the truck engine off, the peace of the place enveloped them. He rested his arms on the steering wheel. “It’s a big house.”
    “Five bedrooms,” Ruth said crisply. Her voice held a hint of defensiveness, of someone responding to an old criticism. “I’m not planning to run a bed and