He broke off another ear of corn and dug out those potatoes, then strode to the cabin to set everything to cooking. Who’d have thought he’d be the chief cook and bottle washer in his own house? When he married Delphy, he’d supposed she would do that from then on. And then Loyal came along and Creed took his own father’s advice too much to heart. Pushed the boy too far. Demanded too much. And now . . . well, it wasn’t worth dwelling on. Dad wasn’t here to see how far he’d fallen, and that was a relief.
Creed started nipping his beans and breaking them into a pan. They’d need to cook the longest. He lost himself in the rhythm of the simple task, thinking about how many times his grandmother had done the same. She’d stepped in when his mother died bringing him into the world, and she was the only person Creed had ever seen stand up to Dad. He smiled at the memory of the petite woman in her perfectly starched apron, dressing his father down. She’d laugh to see Creed doing women’s work now.
No, he thought, she’d fuss. She would not approve of a married man baching it up on a mountain while his wife and son lived just a few miles away. He made a point of going into town to attend church with them most weeks and he even spent the night now and again, but mostly he felt more at ease here on his mountain and suspected Delphy and Loyal were more at ease once he was gone. Still, it might be nice if . . .
Movement along the path leading to the cabin caught Creed’s eye. He noticed a puff of smoke rising from the path and jerked to his feet. Had some fool started a fire?
Setting his pan aside, he laid a hand on the rifle leaning against the doorjamb. He cradled the long gun in the crook of his elbow and watched to see what—beyond the smoke—had drawn his attention. Not many ventured this high up the mountain without having a purpose in mind.
When he saw it was a boy, he relaxed. Then he recognized Loyal and every sense went on alert. Delphy never let the boy wander on his own, and she rarely set foot on the mountain. What in the world?
Loyal got close enough to make Creed out, and his eyes lit with fire. He hurried on, sticking his hand straight out in front of him and flapping it—the funniest-looking wave Creed had ever seen. He formed a fist with his right hand, the thumb sticking up in the air, and smacked it into his left palm. He did this several times, moving both hands toward his chest, eyes pleading with Creed.
“What’s the matter, Loyal? What’s wrong?” Creed spoke slowly, locking eyes with his son.
Loyal made a sound of frustration. He fanned the fingers of his right hand, touched the thumb to his forehead, and lowered it to his chest. Then he held both hands flat in front of him, one palm up, the other palm down, and flipped them both over to his left as though turning pages.
Creed felt his own frustration rise. He’d never taken the time to understand what Loyal was saying. He knew the boy could understand him by watching his lips, but how to make sense of what Loyal wanted to tell him? He was clearly upset, and Creed realized the boy’s hands were shaking as he made those motions over and over, as if Creed would suddenly grasp what they meant.
“Where’s your mother? What are you doing here alone?”
Loyal screeched and stomped his foot.
Creed held up both hands toward his son. “Wait,” he said. “I know what.” He patted the rough boards of the porch. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”
Loyal groaned and slumped onto the porch as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and expecting his father to relieve him of his burden. Creed might not know sign language, but he knew body language and it tore at his heart to see his son unable to communicate with him.
He darted inside and grabbed several sticks of kindling. Back outside, he crouched down and smoothed a patch of mountain dirt. Loyal brightened and grabbed a stick. He knelt down beside his father and began to mark in the earth.
M-A-N
He made the motion with fanned fingers and thumb touching his forehead, then chest again.
“Right, you want to tell me about a man.”
Loyal nodded and looked serious. He made the flipping motion with one hand and then scratched some more.
D-E-A-D
Creed felt his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “There’s a dead man?”
Loyal nodded like his life depended on it.
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
The boy dropped the stick and made the flipping motion some more, frowning and shaking his head. Creed tried the motion himself, and Loyal nodded solemnly.
“You’d best show me where,” Creed said.
two
The house was quiet when Delphy finally got back. She sagged against the sink, wetting a cool rag to wipe her neck and chest, her arms. It felt delicious. She closed her eyes and sighed, trying to think what they could have for supper that wouldn’t heat up the kitchen. Maybe she’d just make sandwiches and take Loyal down to the river, so he could swim and she could dip her feet in the cool water.
Smiling, she started through the house, looking for Loyal to tell him she had a treat planned. He wasn’t on the front porch, so she checked his room. Not there either. Frowning, she made her way out back to the bottom of the yard where Loyal often played in the shade of the sought-after cedar.
No freckled, brown-haired boy tossing a ball in the air.
She chewed her lip. Surely he wouldn’t have gone anywhere after she’d specifically told him not to. The town was safe enough, but for a boy like him . . . it was worrisome. She considered walking down the street to see if Sheriff White was in his office, but she hated to be thought of as the sort of mother who panicked at the least provocation. People already talked about her plenty enough as it was.
She made her way back to the house and picked up one of Loyal’s shirts that needed mending. She’d give him until suppertime to turn up before she went asking for help.
Loyal hurried ahead of his father, reveling in the fact that he’d communicated with him. Father had even mimicked his signs. It made him feel grown up and he was trying not to enjoy it. Someone was dead after all. And there was more he ought to tell, but this at least was a start.
He led Father down to the edge of the river where he’d discovered the man with a hole in his chest and one in his arm. It felt like hours since he’d struggled to pull dry clothes over wet skin while his mind ran a hundred different directions. Then the idea of going to his father came to him, and it had filled him with relief. He’d only been to the cabin on Rich Mountain a few times when Mother had taken him there for a visit. The visits had always been short, his father clearly uncomfortable and eager for Loyal and his mother to go home again. But he’d found it. He’d walked all that way and he’d not only found the cabin but had also made Father understand that someone was dead.
He stopped suddenly when the body came into view, and his father nearly ran into him. He felt a large hand settle on his shoulder. It steadied him. He sensed a slight rumbling and craned his neck to see if Father was speaking. He was, though Loyal had missed most of it.
“. . . here while I take a look.”
His father made a “stay” motion. While it wasn’t the right sign, Loyal understood regardless. He stepped into the shade of a maple tree where he could watch and wait.
Creed felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Sure enough. Loyal had brought him straight to a dead man. He knelt down and looked without touching the man. He wasn’t anyone Creed knew right off, and he knew pretty much everyone—especially the folks who lived on the mountain. One shot had winged the man’s right arm, while the second did him in. And quick, too, from the looks of it.