Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (ebook e reader .txt) 📕

Still, it was clear my family owed him a great debt.

I owed him a great debt. “I never knew that,” I said.

He ate his bread and sausage while I broke off a chunk of cheese. We chewed in silence.

When we finally finished, he gathered up the tray and moved to a far corner of the room, where a 221

ladder stood upright near the wall. It ended at the dusty ceiling. “Let me show you where the basin and sponges are. Then I’ll get some oats for your horse and start tidying up down here.” He moved the tray to one arm and started up the ladder.

I stood, amazed. “This leads up to your home?”

“Of course,” he said. He pounded with one fist against the ceiling and pushed open a door.

Light poured in from above. I felt the same rush of memories from childhood, feelings of instant safety and freedom.

Father Vestille slid the tray up onto the floor above, then brushed away clumps of dust from the opening. “It was designed well, to hide soldiers and refugees as well as weapons. If anyone attacked, there was another means of escape. However, I figured it would be best to enter through the ramp we used last night. I didn’t want to startle you. You can eat meals with me or down here. Or you can stay somewhere else and come here if you need refuge. Whatever you choose.”

He ascended the ladder and stepped out of sight. I hesitated to follow him. He had invited me into his home many times, but I had never looked or smelled so foul. With my strange and wanton appearance, I expected him to deny he even knew me.

I rose from the cot, feeling stiff pain throughout my body, especially my ankles and lower back. I didn’t realize how much last night’s ordeal took out of me until I tried to simply stand 222

up. Crimson went back to sleep on the floor. He must have felt the same exhaustion, or perhaps more.

I climbed the ladder, stepping gingerly on bruises and blisters that stung the soles of my feet.

I clutched the rung and grit my teeth. If I planned to continue this crusade, my body would have to adapt.

The door in the ceiling opened onto a corner of Father Vestille’s front room, warm and free of dust. I breathed in clean air and felt my body relax. He had few furnishings, but they looked comfortable. Three cushioned chairs, a breakfast table, a reading table with a lantern and his Bible beside another leatherbound book, a broad round rug, some portraits of the Christ and of some friends, and a stoop leading up to the front door. The outer porch was all I had ever seen of this place. Who could imagine it hid such a refreshing home?

I looked back at the wall of portraits, seeing one that looked familiar. I stepped forward and saw that it was my parents, with me as a child, only a few years old. Mama held me on her lap, unable to contain her smile. Papa sat beside her, strong and upright, lifting his stiff chin as if daring anyone to attack his family. I forced down emotions, refusing to let myself cry.

Then I realized, he had no paintings of any other friends. He kept this portrait alone, alongside the portrait of the Christ. A picture of Mama and Papa and me from long ago, before I was scarred. I tightened my lips and stood taller.

223

Father Vestille noticed me staring at the portrait. “You were only four then,” he said. “That was painted by a young man who came through the village, a couple of years after the war. Your father paid to have it made and it was remarkable. He could tell I wanted it badly, but I would never ask.

I still feel it should have been