Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (best books to read for beginners .TXT) 📗

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Even if I hid in the stone house, the wolves would pass by here soon and catch Crimson’s scent. My throat went dry as I imagined them feeding on his flanks while I drifted off to sleep in the warm cottage. We couldn’t stay here. We would have to race on to the village and take our slim chances.

Father Vestille set down his lantern and grabbed a pitchfork from the wall. Then he started to rake and pitch hay aside in a mad rush. I froze, exhausted and horrified at his sudden desire to clean. His own fear had driven him mad.

He cleared the hay in front of the stalls and set the pitchfork back in place. Two narrow wooden doors, over twelve feet across, had been built into the floor.

I blinked. “What is that?”

He glanced about once more, then pulled up on the ropes attached to each door handle. Hay and dust fell from them, making my nose twitch. I waved it away and squinted at the wooden ramp extending beneath them. It led deep into the earth below Father Vestille’s hovel.

He retrieved his lantern and beckoned us forward. Crimson took a cautious step, then permitted Father Vestille to lead him by his reins down the broad ramp. I expected to duck my head as we descended, but found that even Crimson could stand upright on the ramp and in the long musty room below. A dust-laden cot stood in a cobwebbed corner, opposite some wooden crates of ammunition and gunpowder in the far corner.

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“The man who sold me this property was a retired soldier,” Father Vestille said in an urgent hush. “He built this underground shelter during the Spanish War, to hide supplies and weapons. I’ve since used it to hide refugees, but not since the War of the Territories.”

Near the cot sat a sturdy, long forgotten rocking chair. In addition to soldiers, this place had housed families and mothers with small children.

Who had Father Vestille hidden down here?

Crimson snorted at something on the far right. I wrinkled my nose at the molded hay strewn across the floor, next to a hitching post built into the wall. This cellar had been designed to hide horses as well as their riders. A true shelter. Sheer genius.

“I’ll clean that out of here and get some fresh hay in the morning,” Father Vestille said, setting his lantern on a table. “I’m afraid you’ll have to endure the odor for tonight. Come. Let’s get you cleaned up so you can rest.”

I climbed down, but ignored Father

Vestille’s offered hand. Instead, I led Crimson to the hitching post, letting Father Vestille hurry back up the ramp to pull both doors shut. He tramped back down as I removed Crimson’s saddle to let him bed down beside the old hay. He gave no argument, showing the same exhaustion I felt.

I turned back to Father Vestille. He paled.

“Helena, what – what happened? Who did this to you?” He wasn’t staring at the blood or patches of wolf fur or even the manure staining my clothes.

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Only the trousers that shamelessly exposed my legs to the world.

“I did,” I said weakly.

“What?” He stared as though I had told him I stuck my hands into a fire.

“I can’t explain right now. I just – just want to rest.”

He gaped at me for a moment longer, then recovered. “Of course, of course.” He moved to the old cot and lit a candle on the table beside it. “Let me clean this off so you can lie down.”

“There’s no need,” I said, dropping backward onto the mattress and sending up a cloud of old dust. I shut my eyes and shielded my nose. I couldn’t get any filthier.

“Helena. We should clean you up …”

“I just want … to sleep …”

The wolves howled from the forest above us, their cries now faint. I opened my eyes to see Father Vestille studying the ceiling. He listened intently for a moment, then turned back to me. “All right, Helena. I’ll be back for you in the morning.

Get some rest. And … tomorrow,