7

Fleeta tried not to caress the gun in her hands. She’d never seen anything quite so beautiful. The balance was perfect, and she wanted to touch every part of the rifle, to take it apart and fit it back together again. She wanted to make one just like it.

She’d watched Hank shoot and thought his gun pulled ever so slightly to the left. She’d give her eyeteeth to shoot it just one time before trying to hit the mark. Every gun had its own personality, and she wanted to learn a little more about this one. Yet that was what made this particular shot so difficult—shooting with a strange gun. Of course, her little .22 was zeroed in perfectly, so Hank didn’t have a thing to worry about. She glanced at him as he reloaded her rifle. He didn’t look worried either.

Merle set out two new targets about fifteen feet apart and lined Fleeta and Hank up at the seventy-five-yard mark. “You’uns shoot at the same time. I’ll call it.” He watched to make sure each shooter was ready.

Fleeta nestled Hank’s rifle against her shoulder and found the target through the scope. The setup was obviously expensive, but she wished for her own peep sights nonetheless. She rolled her off shoulder and relaxed her finger against the trigger guard. If the rifle pulled left, she needed to sit just a smidge . . . there.

“Ready, aim, fire.” Merle said the words with something like glee. He was clearly enjoying himself.

Fleeta pulled the trigger, and sure enough the Woodsmaster gave her a solid kick. Still, it was nothing compared to her uncle’s shotgun. She kept her eye open and stared through the scope, trying to see how close she’d come.

“Rifles up,” Merle said and sent his boy out to fetch the targets.

Fleeta had time to see her own mark but hadn’t gotten a look at Hank’s. She gnawed her lower lip as they waited.

Merle and Judd bent over the targets, then looked at the circle of men gathered around. Merle waggled his eyebrows. “The turkey goes to . . . Hank Chapin.”

Fleeta gasped and then caught herself before clapping a hand over her mouth. She lifted her chin and turned to shake Hank’s hand. “That’s some good shooting. Congratulations.”

Hank took her hand, and his was warm and dry. It felt oddly comforting as he pressed his palm against hers. “I think I had the better gun.”

Fleeta felt her cheeks pink. “It is a good gun, but not near so fine as yours. I wouldn’t mind shooting it again sometime.” The pink flushed deeper. That was a forward thing to say.

“My seven-forty might have cost more, but I don’t think I’ve ever fired a piece of equipment so finely tuned as your rifle. Mine still needs some adjusting, some breaking in. This gun”—he held it out to her—“won the match more than I did.”

Fleeta exchanged his rifle for hers. She guessed if she had to lose to someone, it was just as well she’d lost to a gentlemanly fellow from out of state. At any rate, after this she’d probably never see Hank again. She found that thought to be both comforting and disappointing.

Elnora and Aunt Maisie were downstairs in the kitchen, fussing over Thanksgiving dinner. Aunt Maisie, still puny, mostly gave directions and flapped her hands. Fleeta had been right there in the thick of it with them until Elnora suggested in her usual overbearing way that Fleeta should put on a dress and act like a lady for once in honor of the holiday. As if it wasn’t insult enough that she’d had to stay back from that morning’s hunting party to help prepare the meal.

Fleeta snorted and stomped upstairs to try to do something with her hair. Women’s work indeed. Simeon for one would much rather hang around the kitchen than do anything outside. He’d come back from hunting early, then spent the rest of the morning reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. He probably would have been more help in the kitchen than she was. Hadn’t it been enough that she and Albert provided the two wild turkeys that were even now roasting side by side in the oven?

Giving up on her hair, Fleeta dug out a circle skirt Aunt Maisie had made for her a few years back. She shook out the wrinkles and slipped it on, feeling as though she were drowning in the dark green fabric. At least the color wasn’t terrible. She found a cream-colored sweater she was pretty sure belonged to Elnora, but if her cousin wanted Fleeta to dress up, she’d just have to sacrifice her sweater. And it probably would be a sacrifice, since Fleeta knew she couldn’t be trusted to keep it clean.

Looking at herself as best she could in the dressing table mirror, Fleeta thought the skirt hung limp, but no way was she putting on petticoats or crinolines. And she most certainly was not wearing a girdle. Making a face, she brushed out her hair again and plaited it in its usual braid. If Elnora wanted something more than that, she’d have to do it herself. Fleeta turned to abandon the room when a sparkling gleam caught her eye. The brooch sat on her dresser nestled against its cloth bag. Should she wear it?

She picked up the bit of jewelry, feeling the cool weight of it in her hand. She pinned it below her left shoulder and looked in the mirror again. It was pretty against the cream of the sweater—she was enough of an artist to recognize that. But Aunt Maisie’s comments about finding true love echoed in her ears, and Fleeta curled her lip, practically growling. Enough of this nonsense. She snatched the pin off, snagging her—no Elnora’s—sweater in the process. Oh, she wished Aunt Maisie had never given her this thing. Except it had belonged to her mother. Fleeta let her head drop back, the silver of the brooch growing warm against her palm. She couldn’t throw it away or even give it away, and yet the amethyst felt like an accusing eye threatening her with this thing called love.

Tucking the pin inside its pouch, she grabbed a gun cleaning cloth, wrapped everything in it, and buried it in a drawer behind her underthings. Maybe if she kept it out of sight until she was a confirmed old maid with her own gunsmith business, it wouldn’t trouble her so. She spun on her heel in the ridiculous slippers she had also borrowed from Elnora and headed back downstairs.

Hank expected to miss being with his sister Molly and her family for Thanksgiving, but the Markley clan was keeping him well occupied. After a quick breakfast of biscuits with molasses, they set out through a skiff of snow with James intent on getting his first deer. When they spotted a four-point buck, Judd and Hank fell back while Abram led his twelve-year-old son in taking down the animal with a single shot.

James looked like he’d won the biggest prize at the county fair. Abram tousled his hair. “Good job, son. Quick and certain, that’s the way to do it. Don’t take the shot if you’re not sure you can make it. Few things are worse than wounding an animal and having to track it down.”

James nodded. “Yes, sir. Can I dress it out?”

Abram hid his smile. “We might help some, but any hunter worth his salt dresses his own deer.”

James pitched in, and the four of them had the deer ready to drag home in short order. Hank was grateful there were several of them to take turns dragging it out over rough and rocky terrain. Once they got to the house, they hung the deer from the limb of a massive pine to let it cool in the chill November air. There was plenty of work to be done yet, but for now it was time to join the ladies for the Thanksgiving feast.

The turkey Hank won at the shoot was set as the centerpiece of a laden table. Lydia and her mother, Rose, had toiled for two days preparing fluffy yeast rolls, sweet potato soufflé, fried cabbage, mashed potato and rutabaga, corn-bread dressing, creamed onions, something called leather breeches, which appeared to be a sort of bean, and three kinds of pie. Hank couldn’t imagine who would eat it all until he saw Judd and Abram tuck in. He hoped they wouldn’t think less of him for not eating half a pie all by himself.

“And now, in long-standing Markley tradition, it’s time for an afternoon nap,” Judd announced after they’d helped the ladies clear away the remains of the meal.

Even James, who had likely slept little the night before in anticipation of their hunting trip, was more than happy to sprawl in front of the fire and close his eyes. And Grace, although nearly nine and prepared to fight napping, didn’t argue near as hard as she might have on another day.

Hank settled with the family in the front room where lazy conversation gradually gave way to soft snores. And yet he found he wasn’t the least bit sleepy. The pleasures of the day filled his spirit in a way that made him want to simply spend time appreciating being invited so fully into the bosom of this good family living in this beautiful place. Finally, he stood and tiptoed to the back door, letting himself out into the bracing air. He’d see if he couldn’t walk off at least a little of the huge meal he’d eaten. He also wanted to ponder those life changes he’d been carrying around in the dark corners of his mind.

Thirty minutes later, Hank realized he’d let himself become so lost in thought that the roll and sway of the mountain land had lured him into . . . getting lost. It was a hard thing to admit, and he wasn’t quite prepared to consider his cause hopeless, but when he crested this most recent hill the view wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. He thought he’d be able to see a curl of smoke from the Markleys’ chimney beyond the next rise, but instead there was a mountain looming that really shouldn’t have been there. A blue jay sat on a bare limb, cocking its head at him and jeering in that coarse way jays do. For a minute, he had a notion to follow it when it flew, but decided not to grasp at straws.

He peered around in all directions, unsure of where to go next and wondering if maybe he should just stay right where he was until someone came along. This surely looked like a path that would be used regularly. It wound through the edge of a field near the tree line. A cow stepped into his field of vision. Or it might just be a cow path. Still, where there were cattle, people couldn’t be too far off.

Still weighing his options, Hank sat on a fallen log to give himself time to think. The tree had gone down years ago, and its stump was almost hollow—rotted from the inside out. It was the sort of timber that looked good from the outside but failed to produce. It made Hank ponder what his life would amount to if it were measured in board feet. He’d been feeling a bit hollow lately, like the heart had gone out of him. If he were honest, he’d have to admit it had something to do with seeing Judd and Larkin so happy. They had a child now—the main reason Larkin hadn’t come along on this trip. Little Lavonia was barely walking, and the young parents agreed traveling with a child not yet two would be a trial for them all. Sweet Lavonia had wormed her way into his heart just like James and Grace were quickly doing. Maybe there was more in this world for him than playing second fiddle for the Waccamaw Timber Company.

The jay he’d noticed earlier landed on the punky stump and dipped his head as though peering inside. The bird snatched a fallen leaf in its beak and flew to a low branch, tilting its head to consider Hank. He’d known jays to be curious, but he’d never known one to take such an interest in him.

“You act like you’re after something,” he said aloud.

The bird dropped its leaf and bobbed along the branch, eye now focused on the stump. Hank turned his attention back to the hollowed wood and noticed that the leaves inside didn’t look natural. They looked more like someone or something had piled them there—stuffing them in. Could it be a nest of some sort? Hank wondered if they had critters in these hills he didn’t know about. He poked at the mass with a stick, finding the leaves formed a sort of cap that came away revealing . . . what appeared to be a gun cleaning cloth. He fished it out, and something tumbled onto the ground at his feet. He picked the lump up and found it to be an embroidered cloth pouch with a weighty something inside. Tipping the bag, a piece of jewelry—really beautiful jewelry with intertwined hearts and a glinting purple stone—dropped into his hand. Well now. Had he stumbled upon someone’s secret cache?

Distracted, Hank didn’t notice the soft sound of footsteps approaching until they were nearly upon him. He startled and caught himself before toppling off his log as Fleeta Brady hove into view, head down and muttering to herself.