“He might be holding them hostage or . . . worse.”
“I doubt it,” said Kit. “From what I’ve heard—” He broke off suddenly, turned away from the valley, and sniffed the air.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Look,” he said, jutting his chin toward the forest. “Smoke.”
I followed his gaze and saw a thin column of smoke rising above the canopy of trees.
“Good grief,” I said, astonished. “How could anything burn in this weather?”
“I don’t think it’s a wildfire,” said Kit. “It looks to me as though someone’s camping in Gypsy Hollow. Perhaps I read the tracks incorrectly, Lori.”
I gazed up at him, wide-eyed. “Do you think it might be Rendor?”
“It might be,” said Kit, “but leave your stake in your pack for now. We have some rough going ahead of us. I don’t want you impaling yourself—or me—if you stumble.”
I grinned ruefully, but my pulse was racing as we began our descent into Gypsy Hollow.
Eight
K it’s description of our descent as “rough going” was appallingly accurate. He walked back around the shoulder of the hill for a short distance, then simply stepped off the edge of the shelf and plunged downward with the carefree air of a suicidal mountain goat. I gulped apprehensively but plunged after him, clinging to trees, grabbing at bushes, and wedging my boots behind rocks to keep myself from cartwheeling down the slippery slope. I’d hoped to creep up on Rendor as stealthily as a panther, but I ended up slithering uncontrollably downhill and sliding into Gypsy Hollow on my bottom.
Kit was already there, upright and with a dry bottom. I eyed him reproachfully, then scrambled to my feet and scanned the hollow for a pale, bone-thin lunatic in a silk-lined cloak.
Instead, I saw a deeply tanned, barrel-chested middle-aged man standing in the doorway of a small, mud-spattered, and very dilapidated motor home. He wore a dark brown, oiled-cotton rain jacket over a frayed and baggy blue sweater, and he’d tucked the legs of his brown corduroy trousers into a pair of round-toed Wellington boots. One glance at his footwear was enough to tell me that he wasn’t responsible for the prints we’d found up on the shelf.
Whoever he was, he’d clearly made himself at home in the hollow.
A patched nylon awning on four telescoping poles provided a simple rain shelter for a bicycle, a rickety-looking canvas camp chair, and a folding table. Beyond the awning, a cast-iron stockpot hung from a tripod over a campfire ringed with large rocks. An old-fashioned teakettle sat on a flat rock near the fire, inside the ring of stones.
The folding table had been set for a solitary meal by someone who couldn’t afford fancy travel gear. I noted a tin cup, a plastic
66 Nancy Atherton
plate, cheap silverware, a bottle of milk from the local dairy, a plastic carton filled with sugar, and a tin teapot covered with a shocking pink knitted tea cozy. A dented ladle rested on a plastic saucer beside the teapot, stained, presumably, with whatever was simmering in the cast-iron pot.
Unruly tufts of grizzled hair framed the man’s creased and weathered face, and a glimmer of amusement lit his bright blue eyes as he walked down the steps of the motor home and ambled toward us.
“G’day,” he said, grinning broadly. “You certainly know how to make a grand entrance, little lady. Haven’t seen anything like it since my old boss trod on a fresh cowpat and went arse-overteakettle into the water trough.” He came to a halt before us and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Leo.”
“I’m Kit,” said Kit, shaking Leo’s hand. “And this is my friend, Lori. I work at Anscombe Manor.”
“Right,” said Leo, nodding wisely. “You’ll be wanting to know why I haven’t been round to ask your boss if I can stay on his land.
Truth is, I just rolled in a couple of hours ago, and it took me a while to set up camp. I planned to pay a call on the manor after I’d had some tucker.”
He inclined his head toward the cast-iron stockpot. The mouthwatering aromas emanating from it reminded me forcefully that I hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast.
“I won’t be here for long,” Leo continued. “No more than a week at the most. Do you think you could square it with your boss for me, Kit? It’d spare me the bother of traipsing over there, and it’d spare him the bother of mopping up after me and my boots.”
Kit looked from the rusting motor home to the white hair framing Leo’s wrinkled face and said, “I’m sure the landowners won’t mind, as long as you leave the site as you found it.”
“No worries, mate.” Leo’s broad grin returned, and he thrust a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the folding table. “You’re welcome to join me. There’s plenty to go round.”
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