“Tell that to him,” Grayson snapped, and pointed at Elmer. “I think he’d paint them all with the same brush after the shape he found his wife in.”
Elmer sat off in a chair, alone, facing the woods, distractedly petting Ozzie, who sat in front of him, his head on the old man’s lap. Jake watched him awkwardly light a cigarette.
Elmer had arrived at sunrise, having driven here as fast as he could in an old Cavalier. He’d tried to warn them that Trunk and his boys were coming, but was delayed when he ran out of gas and had to find something to siphon from, and then walk back to the car.
The old man was glad everyone was okay, but the sad tale he told of Edith tore everyone up. He hadn’t said much since then, other than to tell them Emma was only a few hours from the island and he’d made her go on. He kept her story of shooting the man on the road to himself. That was her tale to tell, if she ever wanted to.
Jake shook his head. “Don’t put that on me. Smalls said he never signed up to do any killing. Edith shot first. The other guy shot back before Smalls could stop him. He tried, even with Edith’s bullet in his arm. He did what he could.”
Grayson ran his hands through his hair and then rubbed his still swollen jaw. “Unreal, Jake. You’re really buying that bullshit? This ain’t no movie, brother. You got suckered.”
Jake bit his tongue and scooped up another load of dirt, tossing it over Trunk’s grave. “Maybe so. But, he couldn’t have got far on foot with nothing but a bottle of water, and a small bag of food. And Olivia’s no doctor. She did the best she could, but he’s probably dead now anyway. So, it doesn’t matter.”
He gave Grayson a thin smile, nodded firmly, and turned away from him to smooth out the graves with the shovel head. He was eager to be done with this conversation… and done with death and burying.
Jake just wanted everybody to get along, with no more bullets and bloodshed. But one thing did still bug him… how’d Trunk and his boys find Olivia and Gabby way out here in the country? It wasn’t like they could use Google or anything.
That was a mystery worth looking into. He intended to start with Tucker at Tullymore, as soon as he could get back that way.
Tina and Tarra were in the woods again. Ozzie had chased the wild boar for over an hour the night before, and the ladies had chased Ozzie, longing for a piece of smoky, sizzling bacon. Finally, the wild animal got away, leaving all three exhausted. By the time they’d trudged home, all the action was over.
However, the morning was looking up when Elmer arrived with a baby pig—and some chickens—in tow. But within moments after Grayson had laid claim to the pig that Elmer had already named, Graysie had roared her protest. Bacon Bit would be her pet, she’d said. Hands off, she’d said… Lesson to teach Elmer later: never name your food around here.
Tarra and Tina wouldn’t give up on their bacon, though. They grabbed some spare wire fencing laying behind the barn in a heap and dragged it behind them out into the forest.
Where there was a will, there was a way. But hopefully, their plan wouldn’t end up with one of them gored first.
Puck sat at the patio table, all alone, drawing a picture and smiling happily.
His really bad headache was fading away with each line he drew.
Jenny grazed near him out in the grass, and every once in a while, she looked up at him with her big brown eyes and he could ‘a swore she smiled.
He was happy Jenny wasn’t mad at him anymore. She loved their new home, and she loved the big red barn. She loved Puck, too. He was sure of it. He grinned at her. “I bet we get to stay here, Jenny. Mr. GrayMan likes me all the time now.”
He patted his side, where his brand-new-to-him holster and pistol hung. It was a gift from GrayMan, given to him because Puck had proven he was a man, now. He promised GrayMan he wouldn’t take the gun out of the holster until Tina and Tarra gave him some lessons. They were going to do that starting tomorrow.
Mr. GrayMan had been so happy that he’d shot the two bad men and saved the girls, that he’d also given Puck a real tight hug, too. He liked that even more than the pistol. That hug made Puck forget all about his hurt arm and his bee stings. It made him feel all warm inside, like his heart was smiling. He had also said Puck was a H-E-Double-Toothpicks of a shooter. Puck wasn’t going to repeat that word—Mama Dee might find out.
Now, Puck was almost finished with the picture that wouldn’t stop bugging him until it had been drawn. As soon as he finished, he was going to go out and work with the men.
Just a few more minutes…
There.
Done.
Puck stood up and carried his picture into the house, sticking it on the refrigerator with a magnet. He stood back and stared at it, sighing in relief. Finally, his headache that had popped up earlier was gone. This one had really bugged him a lot. Creeping into his head and picking at his brain nonstop; keeping him from focusing on much of anything. Now, he could almost think clearly again.
He stood back and stared at it, somewhat confused by what he was seeing. He shrugged, and gave it his nod of approval anyway.
The drawing was several small square buildings, surrounded by barbed-wire fencing. Angry men with guns stood in a tower looking over a crowd of people—just stick-figures in his drawing—while the really skinny people were hunched over working on the ground.
He knew the people in his head were sad or hurting, and that they were very hungry. That was hard to draw, so he drew tears falling from them onto the ground instead. There was a sign there on a tall pole, and it was hard to draw, too. But he’d done his best to copy the eagle as he saw it in his head, gripping piles of sticks in its claws, with a circle around it.
There was also a big long truck in the picture, with a tall green tarp over the back. The letters he’d wanted to draw didn’t make sense to him though. It seemed he needed more than the four letters to be spelled right, and he didn’t know that word.
He didn’t want to look stupid, so he didn’t write the F-E-M. Instead, he just drew a squiggly line ending in the “A.”
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THANK YOU!
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Acknowledgments
Every writer needs a few good people to knock around a story with. I am blessed to have my husband, who is willing to repeatedly talk over lots of scenarios, or listen to me grieve over what’s happening with my characters as though they were real people—and they are… to me. He’s a man of many talents, and knows at least a little bit about a lot, which is hugely beneficial when writing in this genre.