But the old man had done the right thing, the smart thing, when he finally succumbed to the cancer eating away at his esophagus-too many years of chewing tobacco, something Silas would never do-putting provisions in his will that one son receive all the land, the other son all the money. It was supposed to get them to work together, Silas was sure, although perhaps his father had known that was an improbability. Silas had been outspoken about the rape of the natural world taking place in the logging camps and strip mines, and had made it pretty clear what he would do if he got his hands on the land.
Still, had they parted ways amicably, it would have all been all right. According to the will, Carlos had the right to continue working on the land where he was already established-he just couldn’t go any further or put up any new logging camps or mines without his brother’s permission. There was plenty of money to be made still, and if there was one thing Carlos knew how to do it was making his money make money.
And Silas, who had never valued money and possessions in the same way his brother had, would have been happy protecting his land and the wildlife living on it. So maybe the old man had anticipated their split, had known the brothers would never see eye-to-eye, and had done the only thing he could think of to avoid trouble between them.
And it might have worked. If it hadn’t been for Isabelle, maybe it would have turned out the way his father had imagined. Instead, his world had ended in fire and pain and death, while his brother…
“Silas?”
He stood upright, hearing the screen door creak on the side of the house. It was Jolee. His brother had gone on with his life, continuing with the business-even if it involved using Silas’s land and making illegal deals and if someone got in the way, well, everyone in Carlos’s world was expendable, after all…
And Silas had known all of those things, but the ultimate betrayal, the thing that made Silas’s gut twist into knots, was the fact that his brother had gone on to marry a woman so like Isabelle it made him both wistfully nostalgic and furious every time he looked at her.
“I came out here to help.” Jolee stepped around the shed and Silas quickly grabbed his shirt, buttoning it up, his back to her. “What can I do?” When he glanced over at her, wearing jeans and her boots and one of his t-shirts-she still had a penchant for wearing them in spite of the fact he’d gotten her some that actually fit—and a hoodie pulled over that, he shook his head, more to clear it than anything else.
“Go back in the house.” He kicked the maul aside, moving past her, heading around the shed. She’d broken his reverie and he was in a sour mood now. He needed to do something to steady himself.
“No.” She followed him, watching as he withdrew his bow and quiver. “You said there was a lot of work to do around here. I can help.”
Silas went back out behind the shed, ignoring her as she trudged alongside him. There was a target set up against a tree in the distance and he pulled an arrow, aiming, trying to focus.
“Wouldn’t a gun be more efficient for hunting?” Jolee chimed in just as he let the arrow fly. It threw him off and he swore under his breath, drawing another arrow.
“Too noisy,” he countered, pulling his bow again and breathing deep, centering himself.
He could hear her stamping her feet in the snow next to him, bouncing a little to keep warm, her breath coming wispy white streams, and he found himself unable to concentrate. Putting his bow down, he turned to look at her, frowning.
“I’m sorry about what I said.”
She pursed her lips for a minute, blinking those big dark eyes at him. Then she shrugged.
“That’s okay. You’re right, if I’m going to stay here, I should help you.”
“Maybe when you’re all healed up.” He nodded at the bandage on her forehead. It was smaller, but the wound underneath was still considerable and she was going to have a scar, no matter how many careful stitches he’d applied-he’d lost count after the fifteenth.
“Well there has to be something I can do.” She threw up her hands, exasperated.
“Besides, I’m going stir crazy staying in the house all day reading Guns and Ammo and watching you check in on me when you think I’m sleeping.”
Silas flushed and was glad for the cold, an excuse for the roses blooming on his cheeks.
“Well, there is one thing.”
She followed him again as he headed to the truck parked in the driveway. His gun case was in the back and he unlocked it, pulled out the 10/22 Ruger, checking the safety and shouldering it. It was always loaded.
“I hate guns.” She trailed him back again behind the shed.
He gave her a quelling look. “I can’t be here all the time, you know.” He went out to the fence line, lining several targets up for them to shoot at that he’d picked up in the shed-three tin soda cans and a beer bottle. Then he went back to where she was standing, watching, arms crossed over her chest. Silas lifted the gun, let the safety off, and aimed.
“You’re going to have to learn how to protect yourself,” he said, pulling the trigger. One of the soda cans jumped and fell off the fence post. His shot was a good one, although he’d just clipped it-he was actually far better with a bow.
“The first rule of guns is to always assume they’re loaded.” He showed her the clip. “The second rule—”
“Never point the gun at anything you’re not willing to kill.” She held her hand out for it.
Silas hesitated, frowning. “I said I hated guns, not that I didn’t know how to use one.” He handed the Ruger over, watching doubtfully as she turned the safety on, checked the clip herself, and then unlocked it, shouldering the gun and aiming. The second and third soda cans fell, followed by the bottle, which shattered with her last shot. He gave a low whistle as she put the safety back on and handed the gun over.
“So you can handle a gun.” He nodded, squinting his eyes at the carnage of bottles and cans left in the snow. It was pretty impressive. “But can you cook?” Jolee grinned. “Far better than I can shoot. Where’s that elk?”
Jolee woke up Christmas morning feeling as she imagined most people felt on that day—excited, anticipatory and utterly happy. She almost didn’t recognize the feeling. She heard Silas feeding the woodstove and smiled, wondering if he felt it too, rolling over in her little bed and glancing out the window. The sun was just coming up over the horizon, bleeding orange light into her room.
“Are you awake?” Silas whispered from the doorway and she turned to face him, grinning and kicking off the covers.
“I don’t think I slept at all.” It wasn’t true, of course-she’d slept deeply, lulled by the sound of a hoot owl outside her window all night. “Did Santa come?” She saw the flash of his teeth through the mouth hole of his mask. “I think there are some things under the tree.”
She knew there were-she’d put a few of them there herself. Silas had bought her yarn and knitting needles and she’d found something else to do besides help him make their meals.
She’d been knitting like crazy when she was supposed to be “napping.” Jolee bounded out into the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon drawing her toward the stove.
“Cinnamon rolls?” She dragged a finger along the top of one and groaned as she sucked the icing off. “Oh Santa has been very good us.”
He put a roll on a plate and handed it to her. She curled up in a chair near the fire in the living room with her cinnamon roll and a big glass of fresh milk, drawing her t-shirt over her knees and admiring their Christmas tree.
Silas had dragged it home through the snow and set it up in a stand he’d made himself.