Lomax frowned. Prairie dogs did make a mess of the acreage, and their holes and tunnels were especially dangerous to the horses Lomax kept in the corral, but using the porch as a dumping ground . . . At least they are on the mat, he thought.
The house was big. Lomax had his bedroom, a den, and a vast bathroom all to himself on the first floor. On the second floor were the girl’s rooms; Claire, Annie and Shae were eleven, twelve and thirteen, and although they all had their own rooms, they usually spent their nights together in one of those rooms. They had been living at Big Sky Estates for a year now, and for these once lonely and abused young girls the thrill of having sisters, even if they were what they called paper-sisters, trumped the thrill of a big bedroom complete with TV, DVD player, and laptop. Despite her young age Claire was the acknowledged master of technology in the house. Annie was the resident girl. She liked nice dresses and fussing with her hair and watching teen dramas on TV. Shae was already mother hen to all the kids, helping Mrs. Mears in the kitchen, making sure the other children had bathed and brushed their teeth, and generally trying to maintain order when the others were getting ramped up over some looming event, as they were late on this Halloween morning.
On the third floor were rooms for Gary and Lyle and Eddy, although outside of winter Eddy spent most nights on or under the porch. Eddy had been spending more time in his room lately, although he usually slept under the bed, not on it, and he preferred looking out the window or watching shadows on the walls to TV. Eddy was ten. Lyle was nine, and enjoyed watching old black and white movies. Gary was six, and he was happiest with a pencil and paper, drawing whatever came to mind.
All of the kids had their own rooms, outfitted the same. All of them had been abused in one way or another. They all loved the freedom of the estate; endless miles to roam and no one to fear, and they all loved Lomax.
Until he took on these kids, Lomax had never been loved. He hadn’t even known what love was until he was forty-five years old. He had been sitting on the big porch at the rear of the house overlooking the back spread of endless open fields, sipping lemonade and enjoying a fresh summer breeze on his face when Eddy came back from his morning run. The boy was wearing nothing but the khaki shorts he called muh britches. He had about twenty pair and from May to October they were all he ever wore.
“Have fun?” Lomax had asked. Eddy was a tough case and Lomax wanted to give the boy plenty of room with no pressure. Eddy had picked up his water bowl from the bench near Lomax’s rocker, slurped loudly as water trickled down his brown, skinny chest, and then had given Lomax a fierce hug, tucking his shaggy head under Lomax’s chin.
Now when Lomax looked at his kids he felt strong and weak, protective and proud, and a fluttery something in his stomach made him feel giddy.
Big Sky’s fourth floor was the cavernous attic, converted into storage rooms, a playroom, and an observatory, with a squat Celestron telescope set up in front of the French doors that led to a widow’s walk.
There was also a spacious, maze-like basement. Lomax had lived here five years now and he still hadn’t seen all the rooms down there; the original owner of Big Sky had been a bit of a basket case, building room after room underground, expanding far beyond the foundation of the house. There was the laundry room and a caged storage area for valuables and the room holding the massive furnace, and dozens of other halls and tunnels and rooms and cubbyholes.
Lomax entered the kitchen and said good morning to Shae and Mrs.
Mears, who were filling cereal bowls, cooking eggs and making toast. Mrs.
Mears looked at her wristwatch and raised an eyebrow.
“I slept in because we are celebrating Halloween tonight instead of during the week,” Lomax said.
Lomax would have preferred to call the woman Sarah, but Mrs. Mears was a strong-willed Texan lady, a widow who was a few years younger than Lomax, patient, attentive, and very proper. She kept house, cooking, cleaning and caring for the kids. She also kept Lomax’s life in order. She had a little three room cottage a half mile to the east on Lomax’s property.
From what little Lomax had learned she had been a teacher when she was younger, had lost her only child in some unspecified accident, and her husband had committed suicide when his oil venture had gone bust. All of this had happened when she was young. She had been working as a caretaker for young and old ever since and had excellent references.
“How are the kids, this morning?” Lomax asked her.
Shae looked over her shoulder and gave him a big smile. She had been born with a cleft palate left uncorrected until Lomax came along. Even after her surgery she had continued to hold one hand over her face until just recently.
“Annie, Lyle and Claire are in the TV room,” Mrs. Mears said, pointing toward the hallway with a butter knife. “Gary is . . . Gary?”
“Here,” Gary said softly, his voice coming from behind a big cereal box.
Lomax walked around the table, seeing the small boy hunched over a sketch pad. The kid had smudges of pencil lead on his fingers and one cheek.
“My artist-in-residence,” Lomax asked. “What are you drawing?”
“A horth,” Gary said. “A wild horth.” Apparently this was an important distinction.
Lomax saw swooping lines, the suggestion of movement and muscle.
It was more thought than picture, and he was impressed. “Well, that’s just fine,” he said, and Gary gave him a quick grin. Like a secret shared between them. Gary had been almost blind until Lomax paid for corrective surgery and some serious glasses. His parents had money for a wide-screen TV and big shiny SUV, but they let their little boy stumble around their home in a world of ghostly blurs.
“And Eddy?”
Mrs. Mears pointed the butter knife in the other direction, the back of the house. “Eddy is outside somewhere, being Eddy.” She gave Lomax the slightest smile.
Lomax liked that smile. In fact, he liked everything about Mrs. Mears beyond her professional qualities. He guessed she was a couple of years younger than him, and he was just a few years shy of fifty. She was his height, and shapely, with the kind of hourglass figure that might finally be coming back into vogue. Her hair was strawberry blonde, like copper reflecting the sun, and her eyes were a very dark shade of blue.
“Mr. Lomax?”
“Yes,” said, startled. A man could spend a lifetime looking in to those eyes. “There are more critters on the back porch,” he said. Lomax was a city boy and he got squeamish dealing with the dead things left outside the back door each morning.
“I’ll take care of them,” Mrs. Mears said.
Was she hiding a smile now? Lomax suspected his unwillingness to handle dead things amused her to no end. She had once tried to explain that the kills left on the porch were offerings; he was the head of the household and was being honored as such. She also said that they were intended as food, and if he wanted she had recipes handed down from her grandmother and knew how to whip up a mean prairie dog stew or porcupine meatballs.
Lomax had paled when he heard that, and she had laughed.
“It looks like things are under control here,” he said, looking around the busy kitchen. “I think I’ll help myself to—“
“Whole wheat toast with just a touch of butter,” Mrs. Mears said to Shae. “Some melon, or berries, and a large glass of orange juice. Decaf, if coffee is necessary. No eggs, no bacon.”