"Is Daddy all right? He looks real sick."
Driscol shifted the boy a bit farther into his lap. "He's fine, Andy. A little sick, yes. But he'll be fine by tomorrow. It might happen again, mind. You needn't worry about it though, lad, because we'll take care of it. Your father has many friends."
The boy looked up at him uncertainly. Then, just as uncertainly, swiveled his head to look up at the carving.
"That's Mommy, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
There was silence for a time as the boy settled his head on Driscol's shoulder and stared up at the carving. Houston's gentle snores were the only sound in the church.
Antoinette really had done a splendid job. It was Maria Hester, almost to the flesh.
"Will she go away again?"
"No, lad. She will not." All the weight of the Ozarks and the Ouachitas was in that voice. Ireland, too, and the mountains of Spain.
"Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever."