Come, oh come in haste, my dear friend.
The letter ended with the last words trailing off, as if Mother had been too tired to finish. Her name at the bottom was a scribble.
Cassidy pressed the open sheet to her face. Isabelle. She remembered Isabelle, hazily, as a bright face and sweeping skirt, laughing with Mother or taking a moment to play with a little girl. Aunt Isabelle. Yes, Mother had talked about her, and smiled when she did… before Father left.
This was a letter, and it was supposed to go to Aunt Isabelle, who had moved away to San Francisco when Cassidy was hardly more than a baby. Cassidy knew about letters, and how Mother used to go down to town sometimes to mail them. But this one had never left the cabin. Maybe Mother had forgotten, or was too sick.
Some of the letter was confusing, but Cassidy understood enough. Mother had wanted Isabelle to come here and take Cassidy to a place called England, where there were—she paused to puzzle out the words again. “… kin in England my own dear mother wished to forget… family… my kind”
Family. Loups-garous, like Mother. That was the word for people who could Change.
Cassidy found the other papers Mother had talked about and looked at the short list of names.
Forster. Mother had mentioned that name before, too. Forster blood. It didn’t mean anything to Cassidy, nor did words like “earl” and “Greyburn” and “Northumberland.” But they all had to do with family. Belonging. Never being alone again. Knowing all the secrets that made someone safe for always.
Not always. Mother was dead. But somewhere there were people like her. People to go to… if she could find Isabelle.
Cassidy rocked back on her heels and stared into the feeble flame catching on the wood. San Francisco was a very long ways away, she knew. Would Isabelle be glad to see her?
A lump formed in Cassidy’s throat. To feel someone’s arms around her, and hear loving words, a voice saying everything was going to be all right again…
From outside the cabin a horse whinnied.
Cassidy jumped to her feet. There weren’t any horses here anymore, not since the mare was stolen.
All the hair on her head seemed to stand on end, and her legs felt wobbly. Father. Father, come home. Or Morgan. Or both of them. Come to take her away.
She jammed the letter into her pocket, rushed to the door, tripped over the threshold, and flung herself onto the narrow porch. The man was just getting down from his horse, but Cassidy knew at once that the smells weren’t right. Not Father, or Morgan. A stranger.
“Hello?” the man called.
Cassidy froze very still, like a rabbit. The man saw her anyway, and started toward her.
“Is this the Holts’ cabin? Is your papa at home, child?”
He knew her last name. Maybe he knew her Father. She stepped forward and stopped herself at the edge of the porch. “My father is gone,” she said, trying to sound grown-up. She met the stranger’s eyes. They were nested in a web of wrinkles and his skin was very tan. There was something about his face…
He frowned. “What is your name?”
“Cassidy,” she said. “Cassidy Holt.”
The man’s shoulders sagged. “Then I’ve come to the right place.” His gaze swept the cabin and returned to Cassidy. “When will your father return?”
She bit her lip, because she was afraid she might blubber. “He went away and never came back.”
The stranger pulled his hat from wiry gray hair and held it in his hands. “How long ago?”
“When I was only six,” she said. “Then Morgan left, and Mother…” The words wanted to pour out, because there had been no one to listen until now. But she bit harder on her lip and stared at the man’s booted feet, worn and caked with red mountain dirt.
“You must be about seven,” the man said. “Where is your mother?”
Cassidy caught her breath on a sob and jumped off the porch and into the stranger’s arms. He took a startled step back and closed his arms around her, just long enough to set her on her feet again. He held her away with his hands on her shoulders. She hugged herself instead.