The Greyhound bus followed the interstate from Charlotte, its diesel engine rattling. Freddie Gouge leaned against the window to watch smoky exhaust being swallowed by gunmetal gray clouds.

She ignored the pain in her gut. The hunger gnawed her insides like a carnivorous weasel, nibbling away at her confidence and self-esteem. No food would tame her hunger, that she knew well.

The bus seat was larger than her seat on the plane; however, a catnap was just as elusive on the bus. Leaning back and closing her eyes, Freddie tried to sort out her emotions. The single most important element in her life was Gram; her worst inexplicable blunder was leaving Gram and Pax.

She had hoped it would not rain on her homecoming, but the somber overcast of clouds over western North Carolina contrasted dramatically with this mornings dazzling sunlight at Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix. She squinted at the skyline, straining to see the first faint traces of the mountains. When she could make out a pewter hump on the horizon, her heart lurched. The Blue Ridge Mountains. Paxton Palmer.

Mountains and Pax. She drew a painful breath from deep within her lungs. He had been courteous on the phone, but he had been speaking on behalf of Gram. Freddie touched her hair. It had the texture of dried straw and was bleached dry by the sun. Her skin was several shades tanner than the girl who had left the state soon after high school. She hoped, at least, for a chance to wash her face before confronting him.

The whine of the buss laboring engine, shifting down for its final climb to Morganton, alerted her that her journey was nearing its end. Exhaustion and anxiety wove a tight knot in her chest. It was hard to imagine her feisty little grandmother seriously ill.

She could be home within an hour, if someone met her. Home. She had been away so long that the word had an unfamiliar ring to it. What would she do if Pax hadn't arranged a ride for her? Hitchhike the forty-seven miles? She felt just desperate enough to try it.

As they pulled into the station yard, she watched the surge of people moving toward the bus. She scrutinized each face, searching for a former neighbor or friend who could give her a ride on the final portion of her journey.

Her travel plans had been so rushed and confusing, flying on standby, she could not give Pax the itinerary. She had changed planes three times, spending hours waiting in airports and bus stations. She left him a message on his answering machine during a layover in Nashville, but had no way of knowing if he had received it.

The clouds had dissipated; at least it wouldn't rain. Searching the crowd, she saw him, looming above the heads of the others. Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. Why couldn't he have sent someone else to meet her?

He looked detached, isolated, but she saw nothing menacing in his stance. He was slightly away from the group, and with his broad shoulders and height, he looked like John Wayne meeting the stagecoach in a Western movie. She had forgotten how masculine he was. His full brown beard distinguished him from all the other men in the crowd.

She gathered her belongings but deliberately waited until the aisle was filled with other passengers. She stood up stiffly, weak with foreboding and wishing she would postpone this encounter. How would he welcome her?

As the driver helped her down the steps, Pax spotted her, and stepped forward. His face flooded with relief, as though he had not really expected her.

"Hey," he said and reached for her suitcase.

"Hello, Pax."

"This it? This all you've brought back?" He sounded incredulous. "Then you don't intend to stay." He chopped his words off.

"If . . ." she began, but he did not look at her.

He grunted and took her elbow. She was startled by the force of his grip as he propelled her toward the parking lot. "Ouch!"

"Sorry. Didn't mean to hurt you."

"Its okay, Pax. Have you been waiting long?"

"About four years, more or less." He took a deep breath, released her arm and looked down at her. "No, I haven't been here long. Over here. You remember The Green Bullet?"

Freddie patted the fender of his ancient truck. "I can't believe you still drive this thing. Where's your stepladder?" She had forgotten how high the cab was.

He placed her suitcase in the truck bed and opened the door of the cab. "You haven't grown much in the years youve been away." He grasped both elbows and lifted her as easily as he had in high school.

She leaned against the seat and waited for him to get in. Her insides churned. She had prayed that seeing him would not reignite old feelings.

Pax ducked under the door frame, and she was acutely aware of him as he climbed in beside her. Before he turned the ignition key, she laid her hand on his arm. She felt his muscles stiffen at the contact, and it sent a shiver through her body, but she did not remove her hand immediately.

"How is she? Truthfully?"

A cane? Freddie had not realized Gram was that frail. "Why didnt' you call me sooner?"

"Couldn't find you."

"Gram knew how to reach me."

"Your Gram was unconscious." He sounded defensive. "I did the best I could." His eyes slid over her hair and face. "You look about dead. Close your eyes and rest a bit."

She squirmed uncomfortably under his appraisal. He lifted a trembling hand, cupped it to fit the contour of her cheek. For a heart-thumping moment she anticipated a caress to her face. She met his eyes, and he dropped his hand back onto his knee. Sadness rolled over her. Why had she expected him to touch her? Why did she want it so much?

She lowered her eyes, and he jerked his gaze back to the dashboard and fumbled with the keys.

She tried to squeeze the fatigue from her voice. "Close my eyes? And miss something? Not on your life. Are the leaves turning? What about the mountain ash? Are the berries red yet?"

He chuckled unexpectedly and started the engine. "They're getting there! I spotted a sentinel maple coming down here. The ash berries are still kind of orange, though."

It was an easier homecoming than she deserved, and she was encouraged as some of the weariness drained away. She exclaimed over each new view of the mountains. He seemed pleased, and he pulled off the road to an overlook to give her a better sight of Grandfather Mountain.

"Ive missed it so much."

"Then why in thunder didn't you come back?" The question stung her, and tension hung in the cab between them.

"Im not sure I can answer that," she said quietly. How could she explain to Pax what she didn't understand herself? Her throat felt dry and prickly. She watched him maneuver the truck back onto the highway, his eyes straight ahead, his jaw muscles taut.

"I wasn't planning to interrogate." He glanced at her, then gave his attention to the road. Some emotion she could not identify passed over his face. Anger? Contempt? Sorrow?

He put his hand on hers. "It's okay, kid. I've adjusted." He spoke gently.

"And you've found someone else." It was a statement, not a question. The wistful tremor in her voice embarrassed her.

He dropped his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug and she felt closed off from him. The loneliness that had stalked her for months rose in her chest and seemed to close the flow of air in her throat. She stared out the window.

Suddenly everything began to fold in on her. She wanted to lean against him, hide her face in his shoulder, beg for forgiveness! All the years away from him! She could hardly stand to sit so close to him without touching him, but she had severed her rights to him four years ago. She did not see a wedding ring, yet she dared assume nothing.

He remained silent, and an uncomfortable solitude filled the cab as she listened to the rumble of the engine when he down-shifted on the climb up the mountain.

####

Pax slowed before the last curve and long ascent to Grandmother Garnet's house. There was enough light to make out the large "GG" on her mailbox. It was her trademark in the weaving industry. Gram was the "Grandma Moses" of Appalachian weaving.

Freddies trepidation increased when they rounded the curve, and she could see that most of the house was dark. She had somehow expected to see the diminutive figure of her grandmother waiting for her on the porch of the aging house.

The gray house blended into the smoky gray mountains and the darkening gray sky. She could scarcely make out the outline of the roof. Something was missing. "Where's Dollie?"

Pax seemed to anticipate her question. "I'm sorry, Fred. GG didn't tell you that your dog died three years ago? I hope she warned you that the big oak tree went down in the blizzard last year."

"No," she whispered. "She didn't." In the last remnants of the fading light, the house looked naked without the protection of the huge oak she had loved all her life.

"We planted a sugar maple, but it'll take years to make a difference. GG refused to take another dog."

"She must be in bed."

"Probably. Don't worry, she'll welcome you with open arms. You act like you expect the hickory stick. Wail until I come around to help you."

She wanted to leap out of the truck and race up the steps into the house, but a fear of what she might encounter restrained her. She was grateful for Pax's strong arms as he lifted her down and steadied her. She noticed how quickly he stepped back from her as soon as they reached the porch. Did he have to be so obvious in his rejection of her?

The walk across the porch was the longest she had ever taken. How would her grandmother look? She hesitated, and Pax finally reached around her and opened the door. He flipped the light switch and the familiar old porch was illuminated. She turned, thirsty for the familar sight. Beyond the railings, an evening fog was just rising, an undulating wisp of white, but beyond that, nothing.

The house smelled musty, and Freddie shivered. She could see the lights in the hallway, spilling out from her grandmothers room.

"Gram," she called. She wanted to run to her grandmother as she had as a kid but her legs wouldnt cooperate. She dragged herself toward the doorway, then paused, unable to enter.

Propped in the huge bed was a small figure, pain-pinched face ashen against the white pillows. She reminded Freddie of a doll she'd had as a child. The face had been made from a genuine apple, shriveled and wrinkled by the sun. Now Freddie desperately searched the wizened face for any sign of welcome.

"Gram?"

Freddie saw her grandmothers eyelids flutter and then widen as she saw her. For an incredibly long time, Gram studied her, saying nothing, focusing on the closely-cropped, too-blonde hair and the sad, tortured face.

"Well!" the old woman said in a stern voice. She wet her parched lips and her tone lost its gruffness as she held open her arms and whispered, "Come home, child."

"Oh, Gram!" Freddie sprinted across the room to her grandmothers waiting arms. She sank onto the floor beside the bed and buried her head in the quilts.

"Hush, child. Youre home now. Everythings all right. Isn't everything all right now, Pax?" The knotted, blue-veined hands gripped Freddies with surprising strength.

"Yes, ma'am," Pax replied and his voice was husky. "I'll get her suitcase."

Gram released Freddie's hands and stroked her hair.

With Grams caress, all the pain of the past four years came to the surface.

"Dont cry, child. We don't have time for that. Stand up and let me see you."

It took effort, but as unsteady as a newborn colt, Freddie struggled to her feet. She moved back to concentrate on her grandmother.

"Child, you look like a lost creature in the darkest woods. Plum feverish."

From the doorway, Pax asked, "Where's Marge?"

"Sent her home. Didn't want no one but family for the homecoming."

"Id better . . . "

"No, you aint," the old woman said testily. "You ain't leaving until you eat some of the apple pie Marge fixed. I've waited all evening for my piece. Freddie, you remember Marge Burleson, Harry's widow? She's been helping me a while." She waved a bony hand. "You know where the kitchen is."

It was all too much. Freddie still felt guilty for not having been home when Gram needed her, but at the same time her heart was racing, singing of Gram's acceptance, Gram's loving welcome. She was home at last.

"Paxton Palmer." She could hear Grams chiding voice from the bedroom. She had come alive. "Tell me why it took you so long to fetch her. I figured forty-five minutes each way. Figured you'd be back fore dark or I'd of left the lights on." Her voice rose with crackling good humor. "You stop along the way to sweet-talk a little?"

Paxton sounded appalled, and a bit angry. "GG, you know better than that!"

Freddies neck and face burned, but she felt reassured. Her grandmother felt well enough to tease and to order them around.

"Actually," Pax replied, "we stopped to look at the mountains."

"Ha!" Gram snorted in disgust. "Should of remembered I was waiting here alone."

Pax spoke quietly. "Sorry, GG."

Beside the pie on the table was a tray loaded with pottery mugs. Coffee this late for Gram? Seeing the sugar bowl and creamer, she knew better than to protest. She prepared the coffee, glad for the diversion that gave her time to collect herself.

####

Later, when she carried the dishes back to the kitchen, Freddie reflected about the evening. She marveled at the apparent normalcy of the conversation. They talked about her plane trip and there were a few impersonal questions about the West and the desert, but nothing was mentioned about why she had left or how long she had been away.

The only sadness of the evening was Freddie's realization of how quickly and completely her grandmother wore out. When she returned from the kitchen, Gram was asleep and Pax was gone. She hadn't thanked him for meeting her bus.

All at once, she felt the full impact of the day. Though exhausted, she was unable to go to bed, and quietly closed Gram's bedroom door. After pausing outside the bedroom, listening to the regular breathing, she wandered through the little house, dreading to go upstairs alone to her room. She wished Pax had not left so quickly.

In the living room, she found her grandmothers table-sized weaving loom. It had been draped with a white sheet as a dust cover, giving concrete evidence that her grandmother had not worked in some time. Freddie carefully lifted the sheet and shook off the dust, sneezing as she did. She stroked the maple wood on the beam. Would GG ever weave again?

She turned on another light and studied Gram's work. At first she was delighted with the flow of the design and the subtle colors that seemed to blend like a fall breeze fluttering autumn leaves. Then she felt trepidation. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

She carefully unhooked the latches and examined the roll on the take-up beam. The first part of the weaving was perfect, but the rest looked as though the artist had lost her way. Freddie touched the yarn and lifted the shuttle to examine the weft. According to the swatch, it should contain a soft gray. Instead, the bobbin that fit into the shuttle was wound with a flaming scarlet yarn.

It was as though a different weaver had taken over. This was totally unlike her Grams work. Was her grandmother losing her mind? Freddie felt sick to her stomach.

Long before Freddie had appeared on the scene, Gram had made a name for herself when she was still raising her own sheep, spinning and dyeing her own yarn. She hadn't been GG then; that came after she was a grandmother and began winning state and regional awards. Her signature of Gouge had slowly evolved to Grandmother Garnet and finally reduced to GG.

The lights seemed to dim, time blurred and a small girl sat beside the fireplace, listening to the rhythmic thump of the beater as her grandmother operated the loom.

Occasionally Gram sang a few bars of a favorite hymn:

"When the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there."

Most of the time she just hummed the hymns and concentrated on her draft, taped to the top of the loom. The work was physically draining and she conserved her energy.

The thumping was hypnotic, and the child grew sleepy. The steady beat of the loom provided her a lullaby, and she felt safe, secure in the ordered pattern of her life.

Every once in a while, she would go stand behind her grandmother and dream of the day when she could manage the big loom. Gram said they had both cut their teeth on a hardwood boat shuttle.

Perhaps it was simply the scent of the wool her grandmother and great-grandmother had spun and dyed, but Freddie was sure she could identify her Gram's work in any gallery. She used to boast that she could walk through blindfolded and locate her wall hangings.

Even after the spinning wheel had been replaced by a stack of colorful yarn catalogues, Gram had always given meticulous attention to detail and craftsmanship. Her distinctive combinations of color and exquisite patterns had put her art in a class by itself. This weaving looked as though the weaver had gone berserk. Gram was in worse shape than Freddie had realized.

She replaced the protective sheet. The loom stood like a silent apparition, guarding a somber secret, and the ghostly composition seemed to overcrowd the room oppressively.

She must talk to Pax about this, but Pax was off limits to her now. The first rift in their relationship came when they quarreled over the loss of Gram's original designs. She had spent months collecting them, only to have them disappear from Pax's office. Freddie's anger had lingered because Pax was too busy to hunt for the designs, he said. Setting up his gallery took all his time, and she had felt left out and lonely.

Gram never made an issue about his losing the designs and he was probably still her agent and adviser, but hed made it abundantly clear that Freddie had no claim on him now. A terrible sense of isolation accompanied her up the stairs. She didn't care if she made him uncomfortable, she decided, she was going to see him tomorrow.

She was too tired to worry about it now. She only knew she was grateful that he had found her in Carefree. Carefree. The name was an antithesis of what shed felt in that town!

What a mess she had made of her life! Yet, as she undressed, she remembered the love and forgiveness in her grandmothers eyes. The one constant of her entire life had been Gram's unconditional love. Always.

What if she were to lose Gram? The unthinkable thought kept her awake for hours. She'd already lost Pax.