Skeeter narrowed his eyes and placed a hand on the shoulder of each boy. “You’re absolutely sure about this? This is no time for half-truths and half-measures.”
The sudden departure from Skeeter’s normal Appalachian dialect puzzled Ray. He had a sense there was a lot more to this man than just an old coot in faded overalls.
A light head and a dark one nodded in unison.
“You know how to handle a firearm?” Skeeter demanded of him.
“I’m no sharpshooter, but yes. Problem is, I no longer have the ones I brought with me.”
“Hmmph,” the old man said again, then opened the door of a beautifully carved cabinet. He withdrew a hammer and began coaxing nails from a floorboard with the clawed end. Seconds later, Skeeter held two long slender objects wrapped in oil cloth.
“My daughter don’t know about these. She’s aces when it comes to leadership, but she don’t need to know everything ‘bout everything.”
“Understood,” Ray replied.
“Bought these right before it got bad out there. Ain’t never had a credit card, but I got one so I could get these beauties. Ain’t had to use ‘em before now. Been getting’ by with Josie just fine.” The bald head dipped in the direction of the cabin’s door and the ancient shotgun languishing on two wooden posts above it. “This job calls for precision,” he continued, unwrapping the oil cloth. “These here are Mossberg Patriots. Scopes been sighted. Got plenty of shells for ‘em.”
“No ARs for you, huh?” Ray said.
“Them newfangled rifles are for pussies. Pardon my language, boys. The Mossies will do the job. Don’t you worry.”
“Mister Skeeter, can I take Josie? Seems like us boys should have somethin’ ‘sides our blades.”
“No, you may not. Josie would knock you on your backside. Your knives are fine. Keep ‘em in your pockets, though, ‘less I tell you otherwise.”
“We can leave the village without a problem?” Ray asked. He had a feeling this small community was run with the efficiency of an imperial Roman outpost.
“You couldn’t, but I can,” Skeeter replied. “Problem is gonna be the boys. So here’s the plan. You two head on over to the onion field. Take a bushel basket with you. The one next to my porch will do fine. Anybody sees you, they’ll figure you’re fetching some for supper. Wait in the brush on the northeast corner. We’ll catch up to you there. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” Cricket said, excited at the prospect of an adventure.
The boys dashed out the door, slamming it behind them.
Skeeter gave Ray a level look. “It seems wrong to be taking the boys, exposing them to unnecessary danger. But I have a good reason.”
“What’s the reason?”
“My gut. It’s telling me the boys are gonna come out of this just fine.”
“Uh,” Ray started to say, but Skeeter interrupted.
“I know how it sounds. Remember when I shook your hand? You felt something, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Kind of like you had one of those joke buzzers in your hand that kids play with.”
“Exactly. I have some talents that are difficult to explain. Knowing people’s intentions when I touch them is one of them. The other one doesn’t happen consistently, but when it does, it’s always right.”
The articulate Skeeter was back.
“And your gut is saying the boys will be safe?”
“Yes. No question. So if you were wondering why I could be so cavalier about taking them, that’s the reason.”
“I admit, I was questioning your decision. But I also admit, I’m a numbers and science guy, so if I seem skeptical of your gut, please don’t take offense.”
“Deal.”
“So exactly how angry will your daughter be with...us?”
The blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you’re overly concerned with her being mad at me, but don’t worry about it either way. If Willa makes it back home safe and sound, you’ll be her mama’s huckleberry.”
Ray ignored the sudden increase in his heart rate.
“You ready?” Skeeter asked.
“Like a virgin on prom night,” he replied, then a wave of mortification struck. Why had he said something so off-color to a stranger?
The old man just cackled, though. Ray found the sound vaguely soothing.
Minutes later, the two of them trudged through the forest on a well-worn trail. At one point in its history, the trail had surely witnessed deer and other wildlife traversing its length; perhaps it still did. Currently, its most regular travelers were humans on their way back and forth from the village to the crops. Skeeter greeted the passersby with a head nod, promptly returned. No words were spoken when they passed.
Ray’s awe of these mountain people expanded. He more fully understood Serena Jo’s directive about not revealing the contents of his warehouse. And she was right. The extensive, furrowed fields had surely been producing food all summer; even now, a robust crop of autumn vegetables tempted him from their tidy, leafy rows. Fresh veggies weren’t part of his daily menu. All the fruits and vegetables he consumed were either canned, dehydrated, or freeze-dried. Maybe when he returned home, he’d rig up some raised plant beds on the roof.
Or maybe he would earn himself a permanent place in Whitaker Holler.
“This is impressive, Skeeter,” he said.
Countless rows of stubby green scallions hinted at a secret bounty growing just below the surface of a field an acre in size. A young man and an older woman meandered through the furrows, occasionally plucking a weed or squishing a bug.
“These are Texas Sweets, a short-day variety, which works well for the fall here. You know anything about farming?”
“Not a thing.”
“We were doing pretty good before my daughter came home from Knoxville. Whitaker Holler folks been farming and hunting for generations, so it ain’t
