Read The River Burns for Free Online Page A

bolted forward, then braked, turned into Alex’s gravel drive and backed up in a cloud of dust to change his direction, then roared off again, hammering the steering wheel with a fist. His eyes welled up. Before he did anything else, he was going to call the cops on that old man. He was going to mess with that old geezer and settle this score no matter what. The only way to do that was to sic the cops on him. See if he liked that so much.
    To hell with him and his shotgun anyway. He was going to make that call.
    On his front lawn, Alex O’Farrell ruminated that not every sport gave him the kick it once did. That’s what happened when a part of him sympathized with his victim’s circumstances. Wisdom was a bother, and made him less ruthless. Poor kid. The sun was hot now and Alex was perspiring and dirty from his garden work. He turned back to the house, ready for a quick shower and a morning nap. After that it would be noon, and time for lunch.
    Another day. At least this one dished up a dose of entertainment.

5
    S he begrudged this train its old-world comforts. Especially its nostalgic joys, the cosy mystique. She resented the staged evocation of an earlier, purportedly simpler, time. The lives of young women were different then. I should’ve caught a derelict bus if buses were available to catch, been aggravated throughout the trip, crouched in a seat that long ago lost its cushioning while penned in by a lout with a shrill voice and a ringing desire to chat her up. Hitchhiked, then, okay? Picked up by a half-blind octogenarian, half the ride veering over the white line taking the curves in the wrong lane, dropped off by the roadside in a sweltering broil. A crazy idea, the craziest. Then get picked up again and probably molested. Worse. Dumped in a ditch after. Crazy, crazy notion. This train, though, is a pretty crazy idea, too.
    A seer’s advice. Drive your truck into the ground, she was told. But don’t stop there. Travel to the end of the line.
    She was running away.
    Going where that witchy woman said.
    Schoolkids ran away, didn’t they? Teenagers. Husbands fled. Draft dodgers and deserters. Thieves on the lam. Lovers eloping. Cats ran away sometimes but they came back after crossing whole continents if you could believe the myths and what adventures they experienced! The best . Was that it, then? She was looking for adventure? Deadbeat dads ran off. Fraud artists who tripped up got the hell out of town, trying to beat it down to a Caribbean island void of extradition laws. Wives ran away from desiccated marriages. Lambs fled wolves. Or so she supposed. But lawyers, lawyers didn’t run away. Or did they?
    Always, they had better things to do.
    And yet, I’m a lawyer and although others might vehemently disagree that she had nothing better to do she’d decided that her best option in life was to Scram. Beat it. Run. So I’m running away.
    Vamoosing, she called it.
    Perhaps this is what lawyers did. They vamoosed. In style.
    I’m a storm now. The wind. That’s the thing. I can’t argue career choices when all I am now is a whole gale in the dark of night. Even when it’s noon.
    The sedate comfortable pleasure of an antiquated steam engine and passenger train wending its way along a lovely riverside on a sunny day seemed, in oblique ways, enchanted. But she would much rather arrive wherever she was bound like a thunderclap, all wind and downpour, crackling hail and tempest.
    I’m pending, she supposed . The calm before the—
    Raine Tara-Anne Cogshill, who commonly and professionally used only the first half of her middle name, knew little of the place where she was headed. She just wanted to be travelling on the run and got into a slight tiff when she was refused a one-way ticket. The ticket seller, an older man less tall than herself, was adamant. Only round-trip fares were sold. She was resolute about not returning, while he was equally stubborn,