Touch the Sky

Chapter Two

With the extreme difference in size and weight between them, Foster knew the girl would have no chance of catching him if he missed his step on the way down her worn wooden stairs. No chance at all. But he still appreciated the kind gesture when she climbed the stairs and let him brace his hand on her slim shoulder as he slowly picked his way down to the lower level of her house.

Foster had been inside low-lander homes before. But this one looked different than the few small cramped townhouses he'd seen. There was a well used stone fireplace in one of the rooms, something he'd never seen in one of their homes before. And while the place was mostly done up in soft earthy tones, it wasn't plain. An interesting assortment of odd and unique items littered the small tabletops and shelves. And there were framed drawings and pictures of the mountain hanging on the walls. Between two of them, Foster noticed an empty nail in the center of a slightly darker patch of wall. His thoughts drifted back to the broken glass picture he'd seen upstairs. And he wondered if that was the photo that used to hang between the sunflower field and the willow tree or if there were more that she'd taken down and smashed.

After she got him settled on a cushioned bench at her kitchen table, Delilah disappeared into the next room. She returned with a soft patchwork quilt, handing it to Foster so he could cover his naked torso. He gave her a nod of thanks as we wrapped the soft blanket around his shoulders. It smelled the same as the woman that offered it to him, like citrus and campfire smoke. Now that he knew she heated her home with wood fireplaces, the smell of smoke made sense.

"Do you drink coffee?," she asked, glancing back at him before she pulled two colorful mugs down from her glass front cupboard. Foster nodded. He didn't drink coffee often. It wasn't something that they had the capability to produce on the mountain. And anything that came from town was always in short supply. But most people drank coffee when they had it.

Delilah poured two steaming cups from a glass pitcher and brought them over to the table before she gathered up a few more items from the cupboards and the ice box. Foster watched as the woman doctored up her coffee, pouring sugar from a glass jar and cream from a small cardboard container into the dark brew. He never drank coffee any way other than plain. But he liked the way the thick cream looked as it swirled into the darker liquid in her mug. So he followed her example and added the extras to his own cup.

"What's your name?," she asked, taking a careful sip of the hot brew.

"Foster Farrell the Eighth." Delilah smiled, making him feel a little silly for giving her his full name and title. "They call me Lil' Foster," he added.

"They call you Little Foster," she teased, looking him up and down as she took another sip of hot coffee. "I'd hate to see Big Foster." Foster smiled back at her. Her teeth were so even and white they looked almost too perfect to be real. "I'm Delilah Tate," she offered, not giving him time to respond before she hopped up to attend to a beeping noise that was coming from somewhere in the kitchen. Her giant dog emerged from under the table and followed her, no doubt hoping for a choice tidbit.

The beeping stopped. And Foster felt a rush of warm air as Delilah opened the oven and pulled out a pan of biscuits. After setting them down on one side of the stovetop to cool, she clicked on a burner on the other side. Foster had to admit, he was slightly impressed. Being able to start a fire with only a click of a button was more appealing to him than he cared to admit. Maybe these low-landers were smarter than he thought.

Foster sipped his sweetened coffee, enjoying the good smells that were starting to fill the kitchen. He could tell she was making eggs. But the long strips of meat she fried in grease were unfamiliar to him. He'd heard that low-landers ate most of their food from cans and plastic packages. But that didn't seem to be the case. Or at least this particular woman didn't eat that way. He almost had to wipe the drool away when she set the plate of food down in front of him. It shocked him when she caught his hand in hers and tipped her chin down.

"Earth and sky, rain and sun, we give thanks for all you've done," she quickly recited before releasing his hand and grabbing her fork.

"Your mother was a Farrell?," Foster asked. He heard her say it to the lawman earlier. But even if he hadn't, it was clear someone had taught her their ways. She didn't just come up with that poem on her own. It wasn't something they said before every meal. But if they were gathered together to eat, someone would usually say the thanks first.

"She was," Delilah confirmed. "She said you call them lost. The people that leave I mean." Foster nodded. Though he wondered if her mother was actually believed to be lost. It was extremely unusual for a woman to leave the clan. Most of them never even went down from the mountain. But he knew G'Win's mother had a younger sister that disappeared years ago. Foster was too young to remember her. But he heard the stories. His kin believed she'd perished in the woods somewhere, never to be found again.

"My mother met my father and came down from the mountain to be with him," Delilah explained. "She was happy here. But I know she missed the mountain. And her family."

Foster nodded. The fact that Delilah spoke about her mother in the past tense was not lost on him. Nor was the soft sadness that washed over her face. She was a rare beauty, as stunning in her misery as she was when she smiled. And for a moment, he was as lost to her as he had been to G'Win since they were children.

The conversation stopped momentarily as they both worked their way through the food and coffee she made. After he stuffed in the last bite, Foster broke the comfortable silence.

"I need to get back to my family," Foster said. He really wouldn't mind staying a bit longer in this place. But if he didn't return soon, his father was going to come down the mountain looking for him. And that man attracted trouble the way flowers called to bees.

"I don't think you're in any shape to climb a mountain," Delilah said, her eyes moving down to linger on the knife wound in his side. Her tone was gentle and filled with her concern for him. She wasn't scolding him the way G'Win did when she thought he was about to do something stupid.

"I can't climb," Foster agreed. He barely made it down her steps without taking a break. "But I can ride. I just need to get my wheels back." Delilah cringed at the mention of his wheeler.

"After they got done fighting you seven to one, they torched your four wheeler," she lamented. "...and I don't think we can get all the way up there on my bike. I've got my husband's old truck. But its got two flat tires and I can't drive it anyway 'cause its a stick shift."

"Do you think your husband would be willing to make the drive when he returns?," Foster asked hopefully. He wasn't sure how kindly the man would take to having an unexpected Farrell house guest. But how selfless the woman had been gave him hope that her partner might also be an honest and generous person.

"If we're waiting on him we'll be waiting a long while," Delilah said, her bottom lip quivering slightly. "He died six months ago." As her face began to collapse, Delilah pushed her chair back from the table. It was obvious that she intended to flee the room so she could cry in private. But Foster caught her with a gentle hand on her wrist.

"My brother died two days ago," he said. "If it pleases you I'd like to share in your grief."

Delilah lowered herself back down into her chair. Grief seemed like a strange thing to share. But the moment she felt Foster's hand on her shoulder, the tears just started pouring out of her. She didn't object when he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her against his chest. It felt so good to be held. She hadn't really been hugged since Jonathon died. It wasn't until her sobs finally began to recede that Delilah realized the big man was crying right along with her. She didn't think she'd ever seen a grown man cry. Except for her dad. And that was only the one time, when his favorite dog died.

"I know I should sell that truck. Or at least trade it for something I can drive," Delilah admitted, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hands. "But it just felt too final I guess." She reached over and grasped the corner of the blanket Foster had wrapped around his shoulders, using it to mop her face up before she spoke again. "Was it your older brother that you lost?," she asked.

"My baby brother," Foster said. "He'd only seen eight winters." Delilah reached for his hand and gave it a soft squeeze.

"I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry for your loss as well," he replied. "And I want to thank you for your kindness. I don't want to be of any further trouble to you. I'll find my own way home. I'll walk it, even if it takes me a week." Delilah sighed, clearly not happy with the sound of that. She sucked her bottom lip nibbling on it slightly. Then suddenly her face lit up.

"I think I know another way to get you home."