“You don’t need a young gal, Nathan Ridgeway,” she said. “Ye need an old one what’s worn inter the same ruts ez you.”
“I don’t need airy woman, Miz Ransden,” the cunning man said harshly. He lifted her hand away from his arm. Their fingers were much of a kind, dark-tanned and knobby at the joints. “You know thet.”
“Thar’s companionship,” Sarah said. “Thar’s hevin’ somebody t’ say howdy to in the mornin’!”
Old Nathan pushed past her. His boots scuffed bits of stone down the slope until they pattered to a halt among the fallen leaves and pine straw.
“I niver figgered thet was enough t’ offer airy soul, Sary,” he said gruffly. “Thet’s why I sint Slowly away whin I come back from King’s Mountain.”
He paused and looked westward again. “Thet’s as fur as I’ve been, King’s Mountain. Reckon the way thet turned out, I kin see why I hain’t been travelin’ since. . . . But I should hev gone, Sary. Comin’ back here t’ lick myse’f where iverbody knew me, thet was wrong. I should hev gone.”
Old Nathan started up the trail. Nuthatches disputed sharply over a pine cone. The birds were not so much angry as asserting their kinship and mutual interests.
“Thar’s a storm comin’, Nathan Ridgeway,” the old woman called from the overlook. “You know what you know . . . but my bones tell me thar’s a storm coming.”
* * *
“Cullen, honey?” Ellie said in a plaintive voice. “Hain’t ye comin’ to bed, sweetest?”
Bully Ransden sat at the table with his shoulders hunched. Though he faced in her direction, he didn’t bother to look up to where his wife lay under the quilt’s protection.
The threat of the season’s first snow hung in the chilly night, but it was more than the temperature that caused Ellie to shiver.
“G’wan t’ sleep,” Bully said. He held the simple box he had purchased at the auction. His fingers moved over its surface like the blunt, questing heads of serpents. The fire had sunk to a glow, but an alcohol lamp on the table threw its pale, clean light over Bully’s face and the object in his hands.
“Cull . . . ?”
“Shet it, will ye?” Ransden snarled. “Or I’ll shet it fer ye!”
Three nights before, a strip along the bottom of the box had slipped sideways to display a hollow base. Inside was a key, shaped from apple wood instead of metal and so cunningly fashioned that it hadn’t rattled against its compartment when Ransden shook the box.
The key sat on the table beside him. He had still not found any sign of a keyhole.
Ellie began to cry softly.
Bully Ransden put the box down and pressed the knuckles of his two great fists together. “Ellie, honey,” he muttered to his hands, “I’m right sorry I spoke t’ ye thet way. But you jest get t’ sleep ‘n leave me be fer the while.”
“Cull,” the woman said, “why don’t ye jest break hit open and come hold me? Hit’s only a scrap uv wood.”
“Hit’s the only thing I’ve got uv my Pappy’s, girl!” the Bully snapped in a barely controlled voice. “I hain’t a-goin’ t’ smash it t’ flinders!”
Ellie Ransden sat up in the simple bed and shrugged the quilt aside. She wore only a linen shift, but she had let her hair down for the night. It hung across her shoulders and bosom in a lustrous black veil. “Cull,” she said, “you hated Chance Ransden, an’ you were right t’ hate him. You oughter take thet box and throw hit right straight into the hearth.”
Bully looked up with anger bright in his eyes. His mouth formed into a snarl. The woman faced him, seated like a queen on her couch and for the moment as proud and fearless.
“Ye know what I’m sayin’s no more thin the truth,” she added in a tone of trembling calm.
He gave a shudder and looked at his hands again. “Tarnation, Ellie,” he said. “Hit’s jest a puzzle. Whin I figger it, I’ll be over ‘n done with the blame thing.”
He spoke without conviction. Ellie’s upper lip trembled minutely, though for the moment she retained her regal pose.