Providence Bound

Madam Genesis

[WARNING: the contents of this book, and the actions its characters take, will be at times dark and disturbing and, to some, distressing. any chapters containing such content (e.g. manipulation, abuse, violence, etc.) will be rightly tagged, but for any persons on the fence, save yourselves the heartache and find something else to read.]

PROVIDENCE. sometime in late July.

There's a stagecoach coming round the bend, limping up with a wheel that wobbles something awful. You see it from the porch, all fine and red and glossy and driven by pretty dark bay horses, and when it begins slowing down, the dogs rise to their paws and start barking at it.

Angus whistles real loud and sharp, and the dogs quit yapping, but their ears are pricked, and their eyes are pinned to the stagecoach. You follow their gazes, stare curiously out at the fine, sleek stagecoach and all its pretty fixings, and the sight's so intriguing that the sound of Eugenia's voice makes you start. Your sister's standing in the doorway, and she's got the baby on her hip and a frown on her lips.

"Who's that?" she asks, and she gestures with her chin to the stagecoach, but Angus is frowning, and Thomas is still busy whittling himself a new recorder instead of helping shuck corn.

"Hell if I know," says Angus. He's moved his chew over to one side of his mouth, and he turns his head and spits off into the bushes. Your brother sniffs, and then, as he starts turning back around, his eyes shift first to Eugenia and then to you. "One o' y'all find a fancy admirer?"

Eugenia frowns real ugly, and she puts her hand over the baby's ears, but the little tyke's looking over at you, so you make a funny face, and she starts giggling.

"You shouldn't cuss," Eugenia chastises. She narrows her eyes at Angus, and her tone's almost as firm as Mama's. "It ain't Christian."

"And havin' some feller's baby outta wedlock ain't Christian, neither," quips Angus all low and cool, "but ain't nobody say shit about that."

All the muscles in Eugenia's face pull real, real tight for a moment, and her eyes get so shiny they gleam, but she breathes real slow, and she says, in a voice that's awfully tight and thick, "Why don't you go see who that is, huh? 'Stead of sittin' over here, wastin' space."

Then she turns on her heel and stalks back into the house with the baby. She slams the door behind her, but only you jump at it, and though your head's angled down, your eyes start shifting up to Angus, who's now glaring daggers at the ears of corn what he shucks.

"Don't look at me like that," Angus glowers. He glances over at you, and you meet his gaze without balking, but he's not glaring hard. Nobody ever glares hard at you.

The stagecoach's driver is getting off, and he glances up at the house, shakes his head, and then moves to the coach's door. He starts talking to someone what sits inside, but the curtain's been pulled down over the window, and you're much too far away, anyhow, to try and steal a peek of the passenger.

"You gonna go see who that is?" Thomas pipes up. He blows away the little curled shavings of wood what linger on his handiwork, and then he gives it a little test play, frowns at the note, and makes the hole he'd carved a little wider.

"Your legs work too, don't they?" asks Angus.

"No better 'n yours," says Thomas. He blows on the flute again, and the note is nice and sweet, so he puts his knife away and then side-eyes Angus. "'Sides, I ain't the one what might not be gettin' fed tonight."

Angus furrows his brow, and his glower's ugly, but he mutters something under his breath, throws the ear of corn he'd been shucking back into the bucket, and then stands and starts stomping down to the stagecoach. The dogs follow after him, and one starts wagging her tail, but the other two are still eyeing the driver like he might pull out a gun.