Summer Lightning

by Tamara McKinley

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas; Action & Adventure Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance; 20th Century Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

If you love Lesley Pearse, you're sure to fall for Tamara McKinley. Miriam Strong has been looking forward to her family arriving at Bellbird Station to celebrate her seventy-fifth birthday, and she can't imagine how anything could go wrong. But then questions are raised about a stolen inheritance, and everyone is surprised to discover that Miriam has hidden the existence of a dangerous personal enemy. Miriam's granddaughters are drawn into the conflict, and a hero emerges in the person of Jake Connor, a high-minded lawyer determined to discover the truth. Summer Lightning is a feel-good family epic with a dark heart.

Release date: July 18, 2013

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 303

Sample

Dawn was still an hour away as Miriam Strong stepped on to the verandah of Bellbird homestead. It had been a restless night filled with dreams and images from the past, evoked by the events of the previous day. Now, as she stood there and breathed in the freshness of rain-soaked grass and the sweet reminder of good red earth she felt energy and determination return. She would need them, for the battle ahead would not be pleasant.

She closed her eyes, willing the night images to fade by counting her blessings. Her life may have begun almost seventy-five years ago in the cooler green of southern Australia, but she felt she’d been born to this hot, sepia world. To the chatter of crickets, the laughter of the kookaburra, and the sigh of the warm wind in the trees. This was home and she would never leave, for it gave her strength and solace. She had ridden her first pony in home yard and had learned the vagaries of life on this outback station – the harsh lessons of the terrible beauty that surrounded her. Her life had been played out here and the echoes of its laughter and tears could almost be heard in the stillness that came just before dawn.

Bellbird Station sprawled across the isolated north-western corner of New South Wales. The homestead was a six-room Queenslander, built almost a century ago. There was the kitchen at the back, a rarely used parlour and three bedrooms. A bathroom had been added twenty years ago, and the old dunny at the back of the property had rapidly yielded to the termites and the elements.

The inevitable corrugated-iron roof sloped down over the deep verandah that ran around all four sides of the homestead. Most of life was lived on this verandah, especially during the heat of summer, and Miriam had a day-bed and mosquito net set up in one corner, table and chairs in another. A collection of battered cane chairs were set haphazardly amongst the vast pots of ferns and assorted greenery that added to the cool green shade of the surrounding trees. These trees were home to galahs and budgies of every colour, and of course to the tiny bellbird whose single note was one of the purest sounds in the bush.

With a deep sigh, Miriam sat in one of the cane chairs and carefully placed the music box on the rickety table. She would think about that later. Her visitor would be arriving soon and she needed these still moments to garner strength for what was to come. How her family would react, God only knew.

Chloe, her daughter would probably tell her not to make a fuss. She didn’t like trouble of any kind, preferring to hide herself away with her paintings in that great rambling house on the beach at Byron Bay. She’d always lived in a dream that girl, Miriam thought wearily. She stared out over the yard, seeing again the little girl with a halo of copper hair and green eyes that had lost none of their brilliance over the ensuing years. She supposed she was happy, but who could tell? She and Leo might be divorced, but she suspected they liked one another better now they were apart – and that had to be good. Didn’t it? Miriam clicked her tongue. Too many thoughts were going round in her head, and trying to sort out her family’s problems was the least of her worries.

As for her granddaughters. Miriam smiled. As different as chalk and cheese. Fiona would probably relish the adventure of the forthcoming battle, but Louise? Poor down-trodden, frustrated Louise would see it only as another problem in her life.

Miriam pushed all thought of her family aside as she struggled into her boots. The pain in her back helped. It was a constant reminder of her mortality. She swore under her breath as the laces took on a life of their own and refused to tie. It was absolutely bloody being old, and far from being proud of her age she cursed it. What she wouldn’t do to be young and supple again. To be able to sleep through the night without bathroom visits and ride for hours across the paddocks without ending up stiff and aching for days after.

She grimaced. The alternative wasn’t attractive, but she couldn’t quite accept what was happening to her. She’d been a fighter all her life, she was damned if she was going to give in now. With a grunt of satisfaction she finally got the laces tied and after glancing once more at the music box, stared out over home paddock.

The sky was lighter, the first, soft pink of dawn bringing the trees into silhouette against the darker huddle of the outbuildings. The birds were stirring, the sharp sniping rasp of the cockatoos mellowed by the rolling, almost sensual croon of the magpies.

She remained there on the verandah as the day dawned, smoke drifted from the cookhouse chimney and the birds took their first flight of the day. They rose in a cloud of pink and white and grey, the tiny green parakeets and blue budgies darting enthusiastically amongst the galahs as they headed for the billabong. She watched them for a moment, her keen eye noting the first of the fledglings to leave their nests. A new generation was on the wing. It would soon be time to make way for them.

‘But not yet,’ she breathed. ‘I need time to put things right first.’

She reluctantly returned her attention to the music box. The cherry wood was inlaid with mother of pearl and scarred with age. Yet, that merely added to its allure, for the scratches and gouges spoke of long journeys across the world, of time spent in some of the harshest places on earth. And as a child Miriam had tried to imagine how they’d come to be there – had endeavoured to conjure up the people who’d once owned the box and kept it safe.

‘Until now,’ she muttered crossly as she eyed the shattered base. Yet her carelessness had set in motion a chain of events that could very easily spiral out of control if not handled properly. For breaking the music box had revealed a secret – a secret that could change the lives of her family for ever.

She ran a finger over the lid as the doubts grew. Perhaps it would have been better to lay the ghosts to rest? To accept what had been found and use it to help her family? She didn’t need this – not now. And yet, how could she just ignore the find? It was the first positive proof that her suspicions had been correct. A tangible gift from the past that cried out for the truth to be told.

She fumbled with the tiny gold key and lifted the lid. The black Harlequin danced with his pale Columbine before the smoky mirrors in perfect harmony with the tinny notes of a Strauss waltz, their expressions enigmatic behind their masks.

Miriam eyed the jewel bright colours of the Harlequin’s costume and the dainty frills on Colombine’s dress. It was beautiful, she admitted, and probably very rare, for it was unusual to have a black Harlequin. Yet, even as a child she’d thought there was something eerie about the glazed eyes behind those masks – something prim and stilted in their emotionless embrace. She grimaced. In hindsight, perhaps they’d always known the secret they had hidden beneath them, and that was what made them appear so superior.

The music died and the dancers came to a standstill. Miriam closed the lid and tried to forget about her visitor’s imminent arrival by giving herself up to the sounds and scents of a past she knew only through the stories she’d heard as a child. It was a time when she had yet to be born – but she had still been a silent, innocent witness to the drama that was about to have its final curtain call seventy-five years later.

Maureen shivered as she wrapped the thin cloak around her shoulders and waited for Henry. He’d never been this late before and she was beginning to fret. Could something have happened up at the big house? Something that meant he was unable to slip away? She gritted her teeth in an attempt to stop them chattering. The walk from the village into the woods had been long and the rain had plastered her long dark hair to her skin and the icy drips were running down her neck and into her dress. Yet it wasn’t the knife of the wind that chilled her, but the thought they’d been betrayed – that he might not come at all.

Seeking shelter in the doorway of the abandoned gamekeeper’s hut, she leaned against the rough wood of the doorpost and smeared the rain from her face. The day suited her mood well, for the sky had remained leaden and darkness was fast approaching. She would have to leave soon, or she would be missed at home – and she didn’t relish having to face Da, for he would demand an explanation. Yet the fear of missing Henry was even greater, for there were things that had to be discussed. Things that could not wait – not if they were to be resolved before her seventeenth birthday.

The beating of the rain on the broken thatch deadened all sound as she stood there in the fast gathering gloom, and as she peered through the deepening shadows her mind raced through the words she needed to say. They wouldn’t be easy, but she had to keep faith in Henry. Surely he wouldn’t desert her now?

‘Maureen.’

The soft voice made her turn swiftly. He jumped from his horse, and with a sob of pleasure and relief she fell into his open arms. ‘I didn’t think you were coming,’ she gasped.

He dropped the reins and drew her close, resting his chin on the top of her head as they sheltered beneath the tumbledown roof. ‘I very nearly didn’t,’ he said grimly. ‘My brother turned up and Father insisted we discuss the running of the estate. I’m only here because one of the mare’s in foal and having trouble and I volunteered to fetch help.’

He pulled away reluctantly and smoothed the wet hair from her face before cupping her chin in his long, elegant fingers. ‘I’m sorry, my darling. But I can’t stay. Father’s in one of his moods and I daren’t be gone for too long.’

Maureen looked up into his handsome face. Henry Beecham-Fford was twenty-two, and his fair hair clung wetly against his finely sculpted head. The eyes were blue and thickly lashed, the nose long and straight above a neat moustache and sensuous mouth. She took his hand and planted a kiss in the palm. ‘Can you not stay for just a moment?’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve seen so little of you in the past few days, and we never seem to have time to talk.’

He kissed her then, drawing her to him, enfolding her in his arms, the warmth of his embrace flooding through her like a furnace. She melted into him, tasting him, breathing in his scent of fine cologne and damp tweed.

‘I’ll meet you here, tomorrow after the hunt,’ he said as he regretfully pulled away. ‘We can talk then.’ His blue eyes were full of humour as he looked down at her. ‘Whatever it is can’t be that important – we’ve said everything we need to right here, in this kiss.’

She stepped away from him. If he kissed her again she would be lost, and she had to keep her concentration. ‘Henry,’ she began.

He silenced her with a soft finger against her lips. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said firmly. ‘If I stay we run the risk of getting caught, and if I’m to make any headway with Father I need to be seen to be the dutiful son.’ With a hasty kiss he turned away and picked up the reins. Climbing into the saddle he reached down and stroked Maureen’s wet hair. ‘Go home and get dry before you catch your death, and remember that I love you,’ he said. ‘Have faith, my darling. We’ll find a way to be together always. I promise.’

Maureen folded her arms around her waist as he turned the horse’s head and galloped away. She stood there for a long while, listening to the diminishing drumbeat of hoofs and the splatter of the rain in the forest canopy. She had said nothing because it had been obvious he wouldn’t have listened – he was in too much of a hurry – too afraid of their being caught. But she didn’t like the thoughts that were running through her mind. Could she trust him? Or was he just using her?

Henry’s family were wealthy English Protestants. They owned the land that stretched up the hill from the harbour in a spider’s web of stone walls. Land that was sliced into plots hardly wider than the O’Halloran’s best parlour. Land that barely produced a harvest rich enough to feed the tenants who worked it once the rent had been paid. Henry’s heritage forbade their love. Would Henry have the strength to stand against his tyrannical father? Did he love her enough to risk losing everything?

She ducked her head, her arms tight about her waist as she stepped from the shelter of the hut and began to thread her way through the forest. He’d asked her to have faith in him – but could she? Did she dare to hope he would keep his promise that they would be together one day? Would he still want her once the social season began and he was occupied with hunting and shooting and dances up at the big house?

Her feet slipped on the wet leaves as she stumbled over fallen branches and around spiny bushes. She had no choice but to trust his word – not now. But God help her if she was wrong.

The wind seared as she stepped out of the shelter of the trees and on to the track that wound down the hill to the village on the shore. Her hair was whipped from her face as her skirts clung to her legs and flapped around her ankles and she leaned into the wind, chin tucked tightly into the collar of her cloak. Gulls shrieked above the harbour where the fishing boats strained at their moorings and the Atlantic waves thundered against the stone jetty, and the dim glow from the cottage windows was a welcome sight. Almost blinded by tears she struggled down the hill.

She didn’t see the women until it was too late.

*

Henry left Dan Finnigan at the stables, and once he’d made sure his horse was dry and had plenty of feed and water, he dashed across the cobbles to the main house. The rain was heavier now, slashing the night in almost horizontal fury. He hoped Maureen had made it safely home, this wasn’t a night to be abroad.

The thought of Maureen made him smile as he swiftly took the stairs two at a time and crashed into his bedroom. His love for her had come as no surprise, for he’d always adored her, even as a child. He tore off his sodden shirt and trousers and swiftly changed for dinner. Those childhood days had been the best, for although he’d been aware of the divisions in society then, there had been a greater amount of freedom – a freedom that had allowed their friendship to blossom despite their different circumstances.

He sighed as he struggled with the starched collar and gold studs. The onset of adulthood had changed that and the divisions had become even wider. What was it about Ireland that stirred people to such hatred? It was evident on both sides, in the Protestant enclaves and the Catholic slums, but surely there had to be a solution – a way of rescuing this poor, benighted country from the centuries of trouble?

He fixed his bow tie and slipped on his jacket. Eyeing his reflection in the mirror he raised an eyebrow in derision. What did he know about Irish politics, let alone a solution to the eternal fighting? All he knew was that he loved Maureen and was determined to find a way they could be together. So what if she was Catholic and her father one of the troublemakers calling vociferously for Irish Rule?

The uneasy reminder that his own father would vigorously object to any such liaison made him falter as he reached for the door handle. The bigotry was inbred on both sides; did he have the strength of character to defy generations of Beecham-Ffords and follow his heart? Could Maureen break with the fast-held tradition of hatred for the English to run away with him?

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he muttered as he pulled the door open and strode along the dimly lit landing.

Beecham Hall was a square stone edifice that had been built almost a century before by a wealthy ancestor. It stood in solitary splendour amongst the hills that sheltered Lough Leigh from the westerly winds that roared across the Atlantic. The long, elegant windows looked out over manicured gardens and a sweeping driveway that was lined by topiary hedges. The cobbled stable-yard could be reached through an archway in a mellow stone wall that was smothered in clambering roses and honeysuckle, and the kitchen garden was tucked away behind the vast laundry.

The land surrounding the house was good grazing for the cattle and horses and the woods were stocked with an abundance of pheasant for the shooting parties his father held every year. Fishing in the river that ran down from the Lough to the sea was plentiful, and the herd of deer in the parklands were a graceful sight in the early mornings, but a nightmare for the gamekeeper who had to fend off the poachers.

Henry had lived most of his life at the Hall, preferring the green of Ireland to the bustle and smog of London. There was room to breathe here amongst the verdant hills and on the craggy coastline. An almost mystical quality in the ruined castles and tumbledown cottages, which appealed to his artistic soul. Then of course there was this house. He loved the high ceilings, the delicate plasterwork on the cornices and the cosy window seats where, as a boy, he would sit behind the heavy curtains and read. But most of all he loved the summerhouse. For this was where he could lose himself in his painting.

He stared out into the night from the half-landing, the distant sound of voices coming to him from the drawing room. The summerhouse was out there in the darkness, tucked away in a distant corner of the garden, almost forgotten since Father had had the Orangery erected at the side of the house. He fidgeted with his bow tie and wished he could forego dinner and escape to his sanctuary – to the painting that was so nearly finished. Yet duty called and, with a deep sigh, he hurried on down the last flight of stairs and crossed the hall. The grandfather clock was striking eight as he entered the drawing room.

‘Where the devil have you been?’ demanded Sir Oswald.

Henry eyed his father who was in his usual straddle-legged position in front of the fire. His hair glinted silver in the lamplight and the beautifully cut jacket enhanced a body kept trim by riding to hounds. ‘I’ve been to the village to fetch Dan Finnigan,’ Henry replied evenly. ‘I had to change out of my wet clothes.’

‘Took a long time, old chap,’ drawled Thomas as his piercing eyes trawled Henry’s face for any sign of duplicity. ‘Sure you haven’t got some tasty little colleen tucked away somewhere, what?’ He snorted laughter and smoothed back his light brown hair. ‘Jolly good sport, but a chap’s got to be pretty desperate to be out on a night like this.’

Henry glared at his older brother, his fists tight to his sides as he tamped down on his retort. Thomas had always had a way of goading him – a way of sniffing out a weakness and trampling it in scorn.

‘Ladies present,’ boomed Sir Oswald. ‘Hold your tongue, boy.’

Thomas’ colour heightened and he turned his back on the assembly and joined his wife. Emma was sitting on a low chaise with her needlework, eyes downcast as if afraid to be noticed.

‘Come by the fire dear, and warm yourself.’ Lady Miriam patted the cushions beside her on the couch. Both she and Henry knew how easily arguments broke out in this family and Henry could see how determined she was to avoid confrontation by the tilt of her chin. ‘How’s the mare?’

Henry didn’t dare look at his father as he took a glass of sherry from the silver salver on the side-table and sat next to his mother. His brother’s remark had been too close to the truth and the old bastard’s mind was as keen as a rapier when it came to sniffing out trouble. ‘Finnigan thinks she’ll pull through,’ he said evenly. ‘But this will have to be her last foal. She’s getting too old.’

Lady Miriam’s diamonds flashed in the lamplight as she brushed her hand over her silken skirts. ‘Thank you for going out on a night like this,’ she murmured.

Her piercing blue eyes held him for a long moment before she looked away. But Henry had seen the questions in those eyes, the doubts, and wondered how long he could keep up this ridiculous pretence. Perhaps, after dinner, he should face up to his father – better to initiate the confrontation than to be caught red-handed and on the defensive. Yet he quailed at the thought and a trickle of cold sweat ran down his back as his father pontificated on the vagaries of having to maintain a household in southern Ireland in these times of political trouble.

Henry blocked out the sound of his voice and turned his thoughts to Maureen. He remembered how wet her hair had been. Remembered how chill the wind and how thin her cloak. It was unfair for him to be sheltered so well, to be able to sit in front of this fire warming himself while she traipsed through the rain back to the village. The ache inside him was so strong he had to stifle the groan that rose in his throat. If only they could have more time together. He hated the snatched moments, the secret meetings where every sound could herald their discovery. Something would have to be done – and soon. He couldn’t bear being parted from her any longer.

The dinner seemed to last for ever and the atmosphere was heavy with impending trouble. Sir Oswald ploughed his way silently through the five courses, scarcely bothering to acknowledge the presence of his family. Lady Miriam tried her best to make small talk to fill the long silences and Thomas droned on about the forthcoming election and his confidence in retaining his seat in Parliament.

Thomas’ wife picked at her food, her soft brown hair dull in the gaslight, her wan little face deeply shadowed. She reminded Henry of a small grey mouse he’d once had as a pet in the nursery. But perhaps that was unkind. Poor Emma, he thought as he finally threw aside the napkin and gave up on the dinner. This last set-back was the third miscarriage in as many years – if only Thomas could restrain himself and give the poor little thing time to recover. But that was typical of his older brother. Never a thought for anyone but himself.

The servants brought brandy and cigars and Lady Miriam swept out of the room with Emma scuttling anxiously behind her. Their sense of relief was almost tangible and Henry fidgeted in his chair wishing he could leave with them. The evening had been interminable and he longed for the solitude of his bedroom, the feel of a pencil in his hand and clean, thick paper to sketch on. He wanted to capture Maureen’s face – her wondrous green eyes and dark hair, the softly curved lips and rounded cheeks and the distinctly naughty dimple that appeared when she smiled. She was so perfect. How could anyone fail to love her?

His father’s voice startled him from his thoughts. ‘Had a letter from Brigadier Collingwood this morning,’ he boomed. ‘He’s arranged an interview for you in London next week.’ His beetling brows shadowed narrowed eyes. ‘Time you did something useful instead of lounging around like some effeminate ne’er-do-well.’

Thomas’ sneer wasn’t lost on him, neither was his father’s belligerent glare. Henry took a deep breath and willed himself to remain calm. This was an old, familiar argument, but he had to remain firm. ‘I have no wish to go into the army,’ he said flatly. ‘We’ve had this discussion before, and I have no intention of …’

‘You’ll damn well do as you’re told, you young pup,’ exploded Sir Oswald as his fist connected with the oak table and made the glassware shudder. ‘I will not tolerate this nonsense any longer. You have a duty to the family to find a career and if you refuse to find one for yourself, then you must adhere to my wishes.’

Henry rose from the table as the colour drained from his face and the depth of his anger made him tremble. ‘I have always tried to please you, Father, but it seems that is not possible. I know I have a duty towards you and Mother, but a life in the army or in the church is not for me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I have a talent – a talent that I happen to think will lead to something really worthwhile if only I’m allowed to pursue it. And I can’t do that if I’m in some foreign battlefield up to my neck in muck and native spears.’

‘Talent!’ The overhanging eyebrows lifted in astonishment then resumed their glowering presence above the smouldering eyes. ‘Balderdash. You take the word of some namby-pamby, so-called artist and think you could make a decent living out of it? Tosh!’ The glassware rattled again and the candles guttered as his fist hit the table. ‘You’re twenty-two years old. Time you grew up.’

Henry stepped away from the table, chin high, determination setting his jaw into a hard line. ‘I’m adult enough to know I will never make a soldier or a cleric,’ he said stiffly. ‘As for the artist you so sneeringly dismiss, he’s just been commissioned by Her Majesty to paint her portrait.’

He clasped his hands behind his back to stop them from trembling and stared his father down. ‘Thomas made his career in politics – it was his choice. You made a career out of cotton mills and mines. I choose to go my own way. All this,’ he gestured towards the panelled room, the crystal and fine oak. ‘All this will never be mine, and as the younger son I must be allowed to follow my own path in life. Why can’t you just accept me for what I am and leave it at that? This argument is an old one and I’m rapidly tiring of it.’

‘How dare you?’ Sir Oswald’s complexion was high, the grey eyes flinty with rage as he shoved back his chair. ‘I’ve a mind to give you a damned thrashing,’ he rasped.

Henry gritted his teeth, the tic in his cheek the only outer evidence of his fury as he remembered those terrible beatings his father doled out when he was younger. ‘I’m not a little boy, Father,’ he said coldly. ‘You can’t beat me into submission any more.’

‘Get out of my sight,’ Sir Oswald roared.

Henry had the fleeting urge to tell his father about Maureen, but Sir Oswald was itching for a fight, and there was no point in adding fuel to the fire. Without a word, Henry left the room.

*

‘Get yer arse outta here, Paddy Dempster and don’t be coming back until you’re sober.’

Paddy stumbled over the doorstep of the Dublin pub as the hefty hand shoved him in the back. He could barely keep his feet and it was only the girl’s arm around his waist that prevented him from falling into the gutter. This wasn’t the first time he’d been thrown out of a public house, and at the age of twenty-nine, he didn’t expect it to be the last. The amount of beer he’d consumed took its toll and he threw up, the vomit splashing unnoticed on his boots and the cuffs of his trousers.

‘I’ll take me custom elsewhere,’ he yelled as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Yer stinkin’ ale makes me puke anyway.’

‘Ye’ll be lucky any publican will serve ya, yer drunken bastard,’ retorted the landlord and slammed the door in his face.

Paddy swayed as he stared stupidly at the closed door. ‘I’ll kill him,’ he muttered, his meaty fists curling at his sides.

‘Now, come along, Paddy. You were promising me a fine dinner, and me belly thinks me throat’s been slit.’ The girl nestled her head on his shoulder as she wormed her arm through his and urged him to move.

Paddy stared down at her, trying to think who the hell she was and why he’d promised her dinner. His bleary gaze softened the hard lines of her face, making the bedraggled hair and grubby neck look almost appealing. But he could smell her, even above his own stench, and the remains of the ale he’d consumed earlier roiled in his gut.

‘Come on,’ she persisted, her voice becoming shrill. ‘Is it all night you’ll be making me wait?’

‘Shove off,’ he muttered. ‘Let a man be.’ He unhooked her grasping fingers and pushed her away. He was a big man, and strong, especially with the weight of several pints inside him. The girl, caught unawares, fell against the wall of the public house and slid into the gutter.

Paddy lurched into a shambling trot. He needed to get away from her. Away from the noise of the pub and the stink of the alleyway. His guts were grumbling, the bile bitter in his mouth as her screech of venom followed him down into the darkness.

‘You owe me,’ she yelled as she leaped on his back. Her hands were talons reaching for his eyes, her legs wrapped around him like a vice. ‘Pay up yer bastard, or I’ll have the law on yer!’

He shook her off like a dog shed rain and she fell once more on to the rough cobbles. ‘Give me my money,’ she screamed as she rose in one swift movement and went for him again. ‘Help! Police! Police! I’m being robbed,’ she yelled as he pushed her away and tried to continue his unsteady progress down the lane. ‘Stop thief!’

Paddy saw red – it was a cloud of scarlet that encompassed his bleary world and filled his aching head. He had to shut her up. Had to silence her before the law turned up. He turned swiftly, his large hand grabbing the scrawny neck, cutting off the stream of vitriol that was slicing through his head. Then he was squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. He needed silence, peace, time to think, to ease the terrible pain in his belly and in his head, and it wasn’t until she’d stopped struggling that he realised something was wrong.

He stared in bewildered fascination as the whore’s eyes bulged and her tongue protruded. He felt her go limp and released her. She fell to the ground like a rag doll. With a cau