FanStory.com - Miracles - Chap 7by Begin Again

It was early morning, and the sun was barely above the towering trees, but the river below looked like a shimmering silver ribbon. The gentle wind carried the scent of pine, and the faint sound of the rushing waterfall below added to the tranquil atmosphere.

Eleanor and Jenna stood, arm in arm, at the edge of the lookout point. Eleanor's hand shook as she held Margaret's urn.

"Jenna, I'm happy you are here, but if it's too much —"

"Never!" Jenna said firmly. "You shouldn't do this alone, Mom. Though I am surprised that no one else is here."

Eleanor sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair away. "Margaret didn't want the fuss. She requested that I do this and let the others move on with their life."

"I suppose, but they are her family."

"I know, but Margaret wanted it this way. I think Margaret regretted how her lifestyle and relationship with her children got off track — another regret thanks to the Judge."

"The accident —" Jenna paused and stared at the sky stretching before them and the glistening water in the distance, deciding not to go where her mind was headed. She sighed. "It's so peaceful here."

"Yes, it was Margaret's sanctuary. Whenever life got too heavy, she would come here and sit. She once told me that she felt closer to me here than anywhere. I never understood what she meant until now."

With trembling hands, Eleanor lifted the small urn and, in a voice barely above a whisper, said, "You're free now, Margaret. No more running, no more fear."

She tipped the urn, letting the ashes drift into the breeze. The gray dust floated over the cliff's edge, joining the earth, the water, and the sky. As the last of the ashes vanished into the air, an eagle appeared, gliding effortlessly above them, its wings spread wide, cutting through the sky with powerful grace.

Eleanor's eyes welled with tears. "She's at peace."

Jenna squeezed her arm. "Yes, she is."

The eagle circled once — twice — and then disappeared into the distance, leaving a calm stillness — a moment of closure and respect.

Pop!

A sharp gunshot crack echoed through the trees, shattering the peaceful moment. Eleanor and Jenna froze as the sound reverberated through the canyon.

Seconds later, Tango, Poppa, and Garth raced from the surrounding pine trees, guns raised, their faces tense as they scanned the area. Without a word, Garth lunged toward Jenna, pulling her toward her car while Tango and Poppa searched the area.

Eleanor's figure shimmered, faded, and reappeared at Garth's side. "What's happening? Why are you —" She stopped mid-sentence as Jenna leaned forward and retched.

"Jenna!" Eleanor wrapped her arm around her daughter's waist. "You're safe, honey. There's no need to get that upset."

Garth opened the car door, retrieved a water bottle, and handed it to Jenna. "Maybe you should sit down."

Jenna's gaze met his. "I'm fine. It was —"

Garth's expression hardened. "You need to tell her."

Jenna's eyes widened. Her gaze darted between Eleanor and Garth. Panic flashed across her face.

"Tell me what?" Eleanor's voice took on a sharp edge. She immediately turned toward her daughter. "Do you know something about why someone was shooting at us?" Worry was etched deep in her features. "Is it Doyle? Is that why you and the boys are here?"

"It's not about the gunshot." Garth's gaze shifted back from Eleanor to Jenna. "Tell her, Jenna." His instincts wanted both women tucked safely away, but the priority, for the moment, was Jenna coming clean. Eleanor would be the support she needed, but first, she had to tell her.

"What's going on, Garth? I demand someone tell me why we are being shot at during my sister's memorial and why Jenna is so affected by it."

Wiping her mouth with a napkin Garth had handed her, Jenna swallowed hard, gripping the water bottle tightly. The message from Garth's eyes was strong. "Mom," she choked as her voice cracked. "It's not the gunshot."

"Oh, Jenna, it's okay if it makes you nervous. I understand."

Jenna glanced at Garth, hoping he'd let her off the hook, but the scowl on his face wiped that thought away. "I'm pregnant. I was raped three months ago."

Eleanor's face transformed from concern to shock and then to fierce protectiveness. She rushed to Jenna's side, pulling her close. "My dear Jenna, you should have told me."

Jenna shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. "I didn't know how. I thought I could handle it." She exhaled. "I didn't even know I was pregnant until yesterday. I took a test at the office."

Eleanor's glare was icy cold as she looked at Garth. "How could you have kept this from me? How many times have I been there for you?" Eleanor's arms dropped to her sides. "My daughter was suffering, and neither of you thought I should know."

The pain in Eleanor's words shot through Garth like a bullet. He'd loved her from the moment he set eyes on her — and learned she was a ghost. "Eleanor —"

Before he could continue, Tango and Poppa returned from searching the woods. Tango yelled, "The shooter was up on the hill further. Poppa saw the guy get into a car and hightail it down the road."

Garth shifted gears. "Did you get a description?"

Poppa shook his head. "Sorry, boss. He was too far away, but the car was a green Land Rover, not that helps much."

"You gave it your best shot. Eleanor and Jenna are safe, and that's what matters." He glanced at the women and then back to his men. "You two take the car and head back to the motel. I'll drive Jenna and Eleanor home."

The two men nodded and headed through the tall pines to where they'd hidden the car.

Eleanor stepped away, and her voice cut like a knife. "Take Jenna home. I can manage by myself."

"Eleanor, it's not what you think."

"Does Matthew know? Was keeping this from me really for Jenna's sake? Or was it your way of getting back at Matthew again?"

Jenna rounded the front of the car, moving toward her mother, her voice strained. "Let me explain —"

Eleanor's figure shimmered and disappeared, leaving Garth and Jenna staring at the empty space.

*****

Miriam's greeting was cheery despite her late night. "Good morning, Milo."

The rooster strutted across the barnyard, his chest puffed out and his bright red feathers gleaming in the morning light. He crowed as if answering Miriam and flapped his wings in a grand display of authority.

Miriam laughed and playfully threw some food towards him. Her hands, calloused and marked from a lifetime of labor, moved with a gentle, practiced touch. "Are you taking good care of the brood, Milo? Cuz I'm going to need a few extra eggs. We've got a visitor, but I suppose Willow already told you."

Milo let out another triumphant crow, turning in a tight circle before marching toward the hens as if to confirm that his duties were well in hand.

"Yes, yes, Milo, go wake up the girls." Her ethereal form shimmered in the morning light.

She straightened her back, stretching and twisting. She could feel the kinks in her bones from last night's ordeal and the lack of sleep. "Admit it, girl, you ain't young like you used to be. Those days of working the vineyards are distant memories."

Flashes of munching on a handful of delicious grapes beneath the shade umbrella, lulled by the sparkling Mediterranean Sea, and stealing forbidden kisses among the terraced vineyards danced through her head. But the dark cloud that followed, when the good of her family and their dreams replaced her hopes and desires, erased those memories.

Willow, her faithful mule and companion, nudged her from her thoughts, braying. His ears twitched at her every word. She patted him, brushing a few stray wisps of hay from his coat. "I know. It won't change a thing, will it?"

The mule's nose pushed against the pocket of her faded gingham dress in search of a carrot. Miriam rubbed his muzzle. "Looking for something, are you?" She laughed — a soft, musical tone. Adjusting the hand-knitted shawl around her shoulders, her thin, weathered hands reached into her pocket and emerged with Willow's expected treat. His mouth opened, exposing two rows of yellowing teeth as he chewed contently.

"Quite a night, wasn't it?" she murmured. "You did good, Willow. It's been a while since either of us has hauled anything in the old wagon, huh? Especially in the dark on the side of the cliff." She shook her head. "Don't know what to make of it, ole boy."

The mule stood quietly, his deep, patient eyes meeting hers as if he understood every word. She chuckled to herself. "I know — you think you're too old, but did we have a choice? I'm afraid this one needed us, whether or not he knew it. I was up till near dawn tending to him. Whether he'll make it is still in God's hands."

With the chickens pecking around her feet, her gaze drifted to the distant cliffs overlooking the lake. Still, thinking about it sent chills down her spine.

She'd seen it all. The house had been abandoned for years except for her ghostly spirit and the animals. There hadn't been a living soul here since the murder — her murder. She'd been accused, charged, and sentenced within hours of finding the body. They'd hung her from the oak tree and then cut her down — left there for the vultures.

Miriam's hand touched her throat, rubbing the scars. Some things were best left in the past. Her innocent spirit had roamed the big house for years, searching for answers but finding none. After discovering the tiny cottage on the far side of the land, she'd chosen it as her home, content with her animal friends, till last night.

A full moon and a blanket of stars lit up the sky. She'd heard the two cars turn around at the old gate and drive up the hill. Of course, as curious as the farm cats, she had to see what they were doing.

Two men, one in each car, had gotten out. Together, they'd carried something big and bulky to the ravine and dumped it. With all the tall weeds, she couldn't see what it was.

People regularly discarded unwanted items along the back roads, so she hadn't given it much thought until the men returned to the cars. The tall, bulky guy seemed to be the boss because he was giving the orders. She was too far away to hear what they said, but by the tone of his voice, he wasn't a happy man. Together, they'd pushed one of the cars across the tall grass. When they neared the cliff's edge, the bossy guy yelled to stop.

Miriam shivered as she let the scene play out in her mind. She still had trouble believing what happened, but she'd seen it with her own eyes. The tall guy had bent over, picked up something, probably a rock, and walked around the car and slammed it against his partner's head. The guy crumpled to the ground.

She almost fainted when she saw him put the guy inside the car and start pushing. The vehicle rocked back and forth at the cliff's edge before tipping and crashing below. The noise was horrendous when it hit the water below. The man stood there for a moment, almost as if admiring his handy work, and then he climbed into his car and drove away.

Once the car was gone, curiosity got the best of her. She'd hitched up Willow, and together, they'd traveled through the field and up the hill with a lantern to show the way. Not that either of them needed the light.

First, she found what they had dumped. She'd seen death before, but never like this.

She could tell he wasn't a farmer or biker because his clothes were made of fancy material, now ripped and torn. She hadn't been able to decipher if he was good-looking or not because his face was so bloody and distorted. Shuddering, she made the sign of the cross and turned to walk back to Willow when she heard a sound — like a wounded animal, low and guttural.

Moving closer, she reached down and touched him. In the cool air, she felt his breath against her fingers. "Willow! It's a miracle, for sure. He's alive."

With Willow's help, she hauled him back to the cottage, the two of them working in tandem. By the time the first light of morning touched the horizon, she'd laid the man in her bed, unconscious but alive, the mystery of the night still lingering in the air.

*****

Back inside the small cottage, Miriam stood by the window, gazing over the lake. She glanced back at the figure lying still on her bed. His face was distorted, swollen with bulges in places it shouldn't have been. His breathing was shallow, often not even audible.

She didn't know him and didn't know why they'd left him there. Or why she'd felt compelled to bring him back here. Yet, as she'd covered his wounds, laid him in her bed, and watched him drift in and out of consciousness, it had all felt strangely right, especially after she'd found the badge.