Angel of Smoky Hollow by Barbara McMahon Page B

clearly visible and looked as large as any she’d ever eaten.
    â€œStarts next month.”
    â€œAnd where does all this corn go?”
    â€œWe put up some. Locals buy it from Granddad and the rest is for the hogs.”
    â€œHogs?”
    â€œThat’s my grandfather’s primary money-maker. Hogs.”
    When he pulled into the yard surrounding the house, Angelica noted the old homestead was made of wood, freshly painted and looking solid and enduring. Behind the house was a barn, smaller than the one she’d seen built. It was painted a rust color red. The huge double doors stood wide open. From inside she could hear the squeal of hogs. The noise was almost deafening. A hound dog ran from the barn. Angelica wondered how it could have heard the truck over the noise of the animals.
    â€œLate feeding this morning,” Kirk commented. He went around the truck and opened her door, then gestured toward the barn. “Want to see?”
    She nodded, falling in step as he headed that way, petting the dog as he trotted next to them, tail wagging.
    Inside the barn was lit by overhead lights. Stalls lined each side of the wide center aisle, but whereas the horse barn had high walls, these were only about four feet high. The sound hurt her ears and she covered them.
    An older man was near the end, dumping meal into a trough. The hogs in that stall were standing on their hind legs, front braced against the wooden stall door, squealing in delight. To the right all the hogs had been fed, they were snorting and pushing into the food troughs eating as if they hadn’t had food in a month. To the left, only two stalls had hogs waiting to eat. Without a speck of patience among them.
    Fascinated, Angelica kept pace with Kirk, her hands blocking some of the high-pitched sounds.
    Kirk’s grandfather turned and saw them, but didn’t pause in his task of feeding. When the last one had been fed he turned and spoke.
    â€œThis Webb Francis’s guest?” he asked.
    She dropped her hands now that the noise had ceased. Smiling politely she waited while Kirk made introductions.
    â€œIt is. Angelica, this is my grandfather, Hiram Devon. This is Angelica Cannon from New York.”
    â€œHumph. How long you here for?”
    She was surprised at the lack of greeting. Everyone else in Smoky Hollow had been friendly. “Until after the music festival. I heard that you sing.”
    â€œNot any more.” He turned and walked to the feed bin, hanging the bucket beside it.
    â€œI’m learning more about mountain music,” she said. “A song I heard yesterday has me puzzled. I couldn’t understand all the words. Kirk said you might know what they are and what they mean.”
    He frowned. His gray hair was covered by a beat-up old felt hat. His bushy iron-gray eyebrows almost met over his nose. “What song?”
    â€œThe Alder Tree?”
    He nodded. “I know it.”
    Angelica didn’t know if she should push to have him help her or if it would be better to let him decide without any pressure. But she hoped he would.
    â€œWhat else you need doing this morning?” Kirk asked.
    â€œStill have to check the water in each trough, open the doors so they can get out if they want.”
    â€œI’ll do that if you want to tell Angelica the words,” he said.
    The man studied her for another moment, then nodded. “Guess I could.”
    Angelica followed Hiram Devon into the old kitchen through the mudroom where he toed off his muddy boots and slipped into regular shoes. She looked around, curious to see the home in which Kirk had grown up. She’d seen hishome now, with its modern touches and homey feel. This place looked worn and old, but it was scrupulously clean.
    â€œWant anything?” he asked, as he went to wash his hands.
    â€œNothing, thanks,” she replied, taking a seat at the wooden table and pulling a notebook from her tote. “I tried to write