Untethered

  Copyright © 2012Untethered by Marcia Lynn McClure

  www.marcialynnmcclure.com

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87174

  Published by Distractions Ink

  ©Copyright 2012 by M. Meyers

  A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

  Cover Photography by ©Philcold, ©Olena Chyrko, and ©Fibobjects/Dreamstime.com

  Cover Design by Sheri Brady

  First Printed Edition: June 2012

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction are entirely fictional,

  created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

  Untethered: a novel/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  ISBN: 978-0-9852807-8-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012940803

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Danielle and Weezy,

  (a.k.a. Danielle Marie and Weezy Ann)

  And to think it all started in my sister-in-law’s backyard, with three salt licks!

  Oh, how close we’ve grown over the years—

  melded our hearts with plungers, Christmas Vacation quotes, cunning jewelry excursions, etc.

  Yet in the end, the fact is our souls were always meant to be friends.

  I love you two! More than words can ever express!

  Untethered represents my heart’s dedication to you both.

  Chapter One

  Cricket could see the ramshackle rooftop of the old Morgan house rising above the tree line on the horizon, and she smiled. Respite was almost hers. There were no dishes waiting to be washed, dried, and set in the cupboard at the old Morgan house. There were no chickens to be fed or cows to be milked or laundry to be hung out on the line.

  She sighed, knowing that, tardy or not, there was fun and laughter awaiting her within the abandoned, dilapidated old house. And so she rushed on, lighthearted at the prospect of a lovely summer afternoon spent in merriment with friends.

  Cricket’s petticoat and dress felt heavier than usual, and she was sure they were slowing her pace. Yet she knew it was only impatience making her feel so irritable and weighted—her impatience and the blaze of the already hot morning sun. Oh, she couldn’t wait for late summer and early autumn—when the weather softened to a comfortable temperature—when all the world was splashed with comforting colors and life itself seemed serene.

  But for now, Cricket Cranford couldn’t wait to meet Vilma, Marie, and Ann, finalize the plans for their Friday evening of mischief, and then race to down to the old Morgan swimming hole. As she brushed a trickle of perspiration from her temple, she decided then and there that she wasn’t swimming with every piece of her undergarments on the way Vilma had insisted they all do the last time they’d gone swimming. No indeed! It was too hot a day not to enjoy the cool water to its fullest. Furthermore, her corset had been damp for days following her taking Vilma’s nagging to heart and swimming in her clothes. Nope. Today Cricket would stand up to Vilma and her preacher’s-daughter propriety. No one ever happened upon the old Morgan place. It was deserted, discarded, forsaken, and long forgotten by most everyone in town. No one even knew who owned the Morgan house, swimming hole, and surrounding properties anymore. It was exactly why Cricket and her friends had begun meeting there. Furthermore, the brush and trees surrounding the old swimming hole in particular provided perfect isolation. No one ever went swimming there—not since a couple of young boys had drowned in it ten years before.

  Therefore, as Cricket approached what had once been the front yard of the old house that had so long ago housed a family named Morgan, she wiped more sweat from her forehead and decided to really enjoy swimming that day.

  She paused a moment to study the neglected structure looming before her. The old Morgan house was a spooky place at times. Age and elements had erased any hint of whitewash or paint that might have lingered on its outside walls or trim. Thus, it stood gray and lifeless—gloomy among the overgrown brush and old trees (many of them long dead) surrounding it. Its windows were glassless and dark, and it had no doors at all.

  Cricket studied the old, battered, and sadly neglected place. She imagined that it once stood white and bright against a canvas of blue sky—that happy children had played in the shade of the old willow tree that still owned a few green branches. Yet now the house looked like something dead that had had its eyes plucked out—and Cricket smiled. The spookier the old Morgan place looked, the less likely it was that anyone would venture into it—anyone other than Cricket Cranford and her friends.

  “For cryin’ in the bucket, Magnolia Cranford!” Vilma scolded with obvious irritation. As Cricket stepped into the dark, dusty parlor of the old Morgan house, Vilma continued to complain. “We’ve been waitin’ a month of Sundays for you to get here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Magnolia (or Cricket—as everyone called her most of the time) apologized, brushing a strand of coffee-colored hair from her face. “My stepmama had a list of chores she wanted finished that I swear was as long as the Bible.”

  “Don’t blaspheme, Cricket!” Vilma scolded again. “You know good and well your chore list wasn’t as long as the Bible. And you shouldn’t swear either.”

  Cricket sighed, rolled her lovely violet eyes, and smiled at Vilma’s predictably. After all, Vilma was the preacher’s daughter. Auburn-haired and green-eyed—pretty though she was—Vilma was an utter pill sometimes, and nauseatingly self-righteous a good majority of the time to boot. The fact was Cricket often found herself wondering why in all the world she even counted Vilma among her friends. Yet Reverend Stanley’s daughter owned a good heart—for the most part. And besides, girls of the same age who lived in small towns like Pike’s Creek needed to stick together. At least to Cricket’s way of thinking.

  And so Magnolia “Cricket” Cranford determined to silently remind herself of all good things about Vilma and her character.

  Thus, she conceded, “You’re right, Vilma. My chore list wasn’t as long as the Bible. I was exaggeratin’.”

  But Vilma wasn’t one to let anything go without the proverbial I told you so. Letting a sinner repent and move on wasn’t her way. She preferred to follow up repentance with an affirmation that she would always remember the sin.

  “Of course you were exaggeratin’. You always do,” Vilma sighed with barely disguised pride in triumph.

  Yet, as it always did, Vilma’s preacher’s-daughter haughtiness tweaked Cricket’s tendency toward mischief a bit too deeply to be ignored. “Nope,” Cricket couldn’t resist adding. “You’re right, Vilma. You’re right. The list my stepmama gave me wasn’t as long as the Bible…only as long as the Old Testament.”

  The other two young ladies in the room—Marie King and Ann Burroughs—attempted to stifle giggles while Vilma glared at Cricket as she took a seat in one of the rickety old chairs gradually decaying in the Morgan house parlor. Cricket inhaled deeply. She loved the smell of the old wood, the dust, and dried leaves that had collected in the old parlor. It gave her the sense of bathing in the past. She often wondered if spirits of the departed lingered there, enjoying the quiet isolation and sharing dearly cherished memories of laughter and love.

  “Blasphemin’ ain’t something to scoff at, Cricket,” Vilma warned. Casting reprimanding glares at Marie and Ann, she added, “And you two will find yourselves dragged stra
ight down to hell right along with Cricket if you don’t quit gigglin’ every time she does it.”

  Marie and Ann exchanged glances. It was their way—exchanging glances and somehow communicating without even speaking.

  Ann nodded to Marie, and Cricket knew that some unspoken agreement had passed between them.

  Marie, nodding to Ann in return, giggled, “Careful with that sanctimonious attitude of yours, Vilma. Or else I’ll tell your daddy you said ‘hell.’ ”

  Cricket tried not to laugh, but Marie and Ann were always so willing to come to Cricket’s rescue where anything was concerned—especially Vilma’s nagging.

  Marie King’s raven hair and azure eyes gave her the look of a young woman of strength and determination—exactly what she was. She was somewhat the mama bear of the group—strong and protective when one of her cubs (or friends) was being threatened in any way.

  “Hell is in the Bible, Marie King,” Vilma reminded. “It ain’t profanity if it’s in the Bible.”

  “Now you all quit,” Ann interceded. “We’re here to have fun, not to squabble.”

  In perfect contrast to Marie’s strong, determined self, Ann’s sky-blue eyes and corn-silk hair offered the appearance of frailty—the misleading appearance of frailty. Ann—though the smallest, fairest, and most soft-spoken, the peacemaker and nurturer of the group of small-town friends—was as tough as new nails and twice as sturdy.

  Buoyed by Marie and Ann’s support, Cricket chimed, “That’s right, Ann. We’re here to have some fun…and we’ve got plans to make before we go swimmin’. So let’s get busy makin’ ’em. It’s hotter than hell outside.”

  “Cricket!” Vilma exclaimed with pure as much fire-and-brimstone wrath as her father often preached with. “Do not profane like that!”

  “But you said it yourself, Vilma,” Cricket began, “that hell is in the Bible…and that it ain’t profanity if it’s in the Bible.”

  Marie and Ann exchanged amused glances, simultaneously covering their mouths to muffle their laughter.

  Vilma simply inhaled a deep breath, shook her head with feigned disgust, grinned, and mumbled, “Well, just say hello to Satan for me when you get there, Magnolia.”

  Cricket smiled as Vilma’s sense of humor finally showed up.

  “I do not know why I put up with your shenanigans,” Vilma giggled. Shaking her head, she added, “Heaven help me, because I do not know why.”

  “For the sake that we do the best we can to make others feel better…to leave only good things in our wake,” Cricket replied. “And besides, we have much too much fun ourselves when we’re doin’ it.”

  Vilma nodded and picked up the pen and tablet she’d brought along to the old Morgan house. “Well then, let’s get started,” she began, dipping the pen’s tip in the small inkwell sitting on the floor at her feet. “Now, what’s our next order of business gonna be? Or rather, who is our next order of business gonna be?”

  The fact was that Cricket and her three friends had found much more than just rickety old chairs inside the abandoned structure when they’d first decided to use the dilapidated Morgan house as their secret meeting place. Certainly a family had once lived and worked in the old home, but that had been long ago—more than twenty years. And now the old house was nothing but a vacant shell. And yet it was a secluded retreat for four effervescent young women who preferred to be about making mischief here and there as well. Among the dust, cobwebs, and dried leaves gathered and settled into the once beautiful home, Cricket Cranford, Vilma Stanley, Marie King, and Ann Burroughs found friendship, respite, and much more.

  “Well,” Marie began as a sulk furrowed her lovely brow, “did you hear that the Olivers are leavin’ town, Cricket?”

  “No!” Cricket exclaimed. “When? They can’t leave town! Hudson Oliver is meant to be yours, Marie!”

  “Oh, I had hoped it,” Marie moaned.

  Cricket frowned as empathy for her friend washed over her. Marie had been sweet on Hudson Oliver since she was ten years old. Cricket, Ann, and Vilma all knew she’d harbored hopes of marrying Hudson for simply ever. And now that she was finally old enough to perhaps catch Hudson’s eye, his family meant to leave town?

  “Maybe Hudson won’t move with his family,” Ann offered. “He’s near twenty-two now, Marie. Maybe he’ll just stay and make his own way here in Pike’s Creek.”

  But Marie shook her head. “I doubt that. You know how his mama depends on him. I don’t know if his daddy would let him do it either.”

  Yet Cricket was not so easily thwarted. She wanted Hudson and Marie to end up scandalously in love and then married, almost as much as Marie wanted it. And she figured that there had to be a way to convince Hudson Oliver to stay, to just let his family move on, to start his own way—and with Marie.

  In truth, it was part of who Cricket was—“a fighter,” her father called her. It seemed there wasn’t a whole lot in life that Magnolia Cranford gave up on. And she certainly wouldn’t let Marie give up her dream of Hudson Oliver—not without a battle anyway.

  And so she announced, “Then you better make this Friday night the night you plant your lure on Hudson, Marie.” Cricket smiled as Ann nodded. Even Vilma nodded with encouragement. “Today when we choose our Pike’s Creek folks to cheer up on Friday, you choose Hudson Oliver…and you somehow make him know that, if he stays in Pike’s Creek, you’ll be here with him.”

  Cricket winced when she saw Marie’s eyes fill with tears. Still, she was determined to see her friend happy and blissfully wed to the man of her dreams.

  “Hudson needs somethin’ to stay for, Marie,” she continued. “I mean, sure…he’s old enough to stay behind and make his own way. He’s a man now, not a boy…but he needs somethin’ to stay for. And that somethin’ will be you. You choose Hudson Oliver as your choice for our Friday night shenanigans. You’ve been talkin’ about doin’ it for months anyhow.”

  “Oh, you’re one to talk, Cricket,” Vilma said—though without malice. Smiling and shaking her head with amusement, she asked, “How long have you been sweet on Mr. Heathro Thibodaux? Since the day his horse galloped into Pike’s Creek, that’s how long. And you haven’t cast any kind of lure at him. But you’re gonna go on and tell Marie to go after Hudson Oliver easy as that?”

  “That’s as different as sugar and vinegar, Vilma, and you know it,” Cricket answered.

  “Well, I don’t see how,” Vilma teased.

  “I think you should do it too, Marie,” Ann chimed. “It’s your last chance. You’ve loved Hudson Oliver forever! You can’t just let him walk away without tryin’ to make him stay.”

  Marie sighed and nodded. Looking to Vilma, she asked, “What do you really think, Vilma?”

  Cricket bit her tongue. It pricked her sensitivities—the way everyone always looked to Vilma for confirmation of anything just because Vilma was Reverend Stanley’s daughter. Yet even Cricket had been guilty of somewhat asking for Vilma’s blessing at times. She supposed it was because deep down inside everyone felt Vilma was somehow closer to the Lord because of her daddy.

  Still, once in a while Vilma could display a morsel of humility, and Cricket sighed with relief when Vilma smiled at Marie and answered, “I think you should cast a lure to Hudson this Friday, Marie. I really think you should. Don’t let him get away without even tryin’ for him.”

  “Yes,” Ann agreed. “You’ve gotta at least try for him, Marie. You’ll regret it your whole life long if you don’t.”

  Marie nodded. “You’re right. You’re all absolutely right,” Marie determined. “I need to at least try for Hudson.”

  “You do, Marie. You really do,” Cricket assured with a nod.

  “So? How will you do it?” Vilma asked.

  Marie and Ann looked at one another. But when the silent understanding they usually shared seemed absent, they both looked to Vilma. But Vilma simply shrugged and looked to Cricket—just the way Marie and Ann did. As was always the case when the need for an idea was at hand,
Vilma and eventually even Marie and Ann looked to Cricket with expressions of expectation plain on their faces.

  Cricket shook her head. “Why are you all lookin’ at me? You all always think I’ve got the ideas. But this has to be Marie’s choice. I-I don’t know Hudson Oliver the way she does.”

  “But you do always have the best ideas when it comes to cheerin’ a body up or catching a boy’s attention,” Ann offered with a giggle.

  Cricket shook her head as a strange anxiety began to rise in her. She well recognized the sensation in her bosom. The sensation of desperation, impending loss, and fear were seasonings of empathy her heart was beginning to feel for Marie. But she also felt strength welling inside her, and she somewhat resented it—though she couldn’t ignore it. She was the fighter of the group—the strong one—and it was why her friends always, always looked to her for leadership, guidance, courage, and creativity.

  “But he’s your lover, Marie…not mine,” Cricket reminded in a futile effort to alleviate herself from the responsibility of trying to coordinate a way for Marie to capture Hudson Oliver’s attention and heart.

  “Lover?” Vilma exclaimed with a preacher’s daughter’s disapproval.

  “I don’t know Hudson very well,” Cricket added, ignoring Vilma’s aghast expression. “He’s always been yours in my mind, Marie…so I’ve never really tried to get to know him better.”

  “You know him well enough,” Ann offered. “You know him as well as Vilma and me. What should Marie do on Friday, Cricket? Just take a moment and think about it.” Leaning forward, Ann placed her hands on Cricket’s shoulders, forcing Cricket’s attention to her. “Now think. What can Marie say or do to Hudson to convince him to stay? What can we do to help her?”

  Cricket sighed. “Short of walkin’ on up to him and sayin’, ‘I love you, Hudson. Stay in Pike’s Creek and marry me,’ you mean?”

  “Yes,” Ann confirmed.

  Cricket sighed, relented, and began to pick her brain for an idea—some manner in which Marie might approach Hudson—some way to hint to him that she wanted him to stay with her in Pike’s Creek.