Glancing at the lock, he knew it would take more time than he had to get past it. He turned and retraced his steps, then went into the book room. Searching the shelves, remembering where he’d seen the Shakespeare volumes, he selected a hardbound edition of Macbeth that had several scars in the leather binding.
He was the first to return to the table. He didn’t take his seat immediately and turned his attention to the garden. Memory filed the names of the wildflowers as he stared at them.
“What?”
Doc turned, seeing Annie standing there with a teapot in one hand, a honey bottle and two cups held by their handles. “I am sorry, madam, what were you saying?”
“I asked you what you were saying. Sounded Greek to me.”
“Latin, probably, dear lady,” Doc said, realizing he had to have been talking out loud. “I was just admiring your garden.”
Annie placed the teapot, cups and honey on the table. “I like the garden, but I made it where it’s self-sustaining. Every year or two, I introduce something new or add a little more ground. The vegetable garden is the most important, so that’s where I spend most of my free time.”
Doc sat at the table across from her, taking the proffered cup of tea. “Thank you, madam.”
“Add honey to taste. I’ve got some milk sub if you want.”
Doc waved the offer away. “You manage the garden by yourself?”
Annie shook her head. “Two families help me tend it. Planting, weeding, harvesting and canning would keep me too busy to run the post. They get part of the harvest in exchange.”
“But they do not live here?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Doc.”
“That’s because there is so much to ask questions about,” Doc pointed out. “You’ll note that I have not asked about your guests.”
“You have now.”
Doc gave her a small smile. “Touché.”
“Ryan doesn’t seem to be a man to let much pass him,” Annie commented. “I suppose he’ll be asking Max questions, as well.”
“Ryan is not a man to let much pass him,” Doc agreed. “Otherwise, he would be dead and buried in some nameless and forgotten grave. But he won’t pry. That’s not his way.”
Annie drank her tea like a woman well accustomed to her own appetites, and not embarrassed about them at all. “He wouldn’t get any satisfaction if he did. Max doesn’t say much anyway, and our guest demands that his privacy be upheld.”
“I see.”
“Not yet, but you will tonight. In the meantime, read to me, Doc. Then we’ll talk about a piece of strawberry pie I’ve been keeping back in the cold house in the cellar.”
Doc opened Macbeth, cleared his throat and began, setting the stage with narrative exposition based on the play and adding to it from his store of memory of stages he’d seen and the performers who’d put the story on.
THE TRADING POST also had a large assortment of clothing and footwear. Ryan and J.B. knew the sizes of all the companions, as everyone in the group did. Scavenging meant knowing what was needed without guessing, without having to pack around extra gear that might or might not fit.
They got everyone a change of clothing, sticking with jeans and shirts in the same colors the friends preferred. They even found fatigue pants, something Mildred favored. Strangely socks and underwear seemed to be in shortage, but Ryan and J.B. managed to get enough to go around.
Max didn’t say anything about the quantity they were taking. In fact he didn’t say much about anything. Ryan was of the opinion that outside of J.B., Max was about the most taciturn man he’d ever seen.
They put their selections in plastic bags, double and triple bagging them to insure that they didn’t break and drop through.
“What about the price?” Ryan asked Max when they were finished.
The man worked a whetstone across the hand ax’s blade. “You need what you got there?”
“Wouldn’t have taken it if we didn’t,” Ryan said.
“Saw the shape of your crew,” the big man said. “I think you need it, too. Looks like you been needing it for a while.”