his sleep. Jacob and Fernie fell silent, waited to see if he’d cry out. But then he rolled over and the snores returned.
Jacob tucked the diary into the nightstand and retrieved the reader he’d found in Grandma Cowley’s cellar all those years ago. He opened it to page sixty-four, where Grandma had underlined a passage.
There’s a monster at first seems an angel of light
And he flies on beautiful wings
CHAPTER TEN
Jacob pulled back on the reins when he saw the woman holding a rifle. He maneuvered his horse to keep the boys behind him and approached slowly. The woman shaded her eyes with one hand, then appeared to relax when they got closer.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Who were you expecting?” Jacob asked. He climbed down from the saddle and then helped Daniel and Diego off the second horse.
“Nobody. That was the problem.” Rebecca tucked the rifle discreetly inside the front door and pulled the door shut.
The highlights had faded from her hair as it had grown out. Its natural color was a shade of auburn. Even without makeup she was an attractive woman, still relatively young—perhaps a few years older than Jacob—and he supposed it was a good idea for herto keep a gun at hand if she insisted on living so far out here by herself.
Something bulky and machinelike sat on the porch beneath a tarp and drew his attention. She followed his gaze but didn’t address his curiosity.
“Out for a ride with the boys?” she asked.
“Target shooting with the rifles. Besides, the house is a construction site and they were getting underfoot.” Jacob tousled Daniel’s hair. He was sweaty and dusty from the ride. “Lead the horses down to the creek and let them graze. You boys can take a swim. I’ll be a few minutes.” When they’d taken the horses away, he said, “A kid who is with Dad can’t get in trouble. Idle hands and all that.”
She smiled. “So you put rifles in their hands?”
“Better shooting aluminum cans than birds and stop signs. Anyway, Diego is fine. I’m keeping him around to help keep an eye on Daniel.”
“Is Daniel giving you grief?”
“He’s a good kid—it’s not that I don’t trust him.” He chose his words carefully. “My son has what you might call a Kimball problem. Do you know anything about that?”
“I might.”
“Like Annabelle Kimball. It seems to run in her line. Usually the boys, but not always.” He pulled out Grandma Cowley’s diary. “Time for answers. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe.” She took the book and tucked it into her apron. “Do you know anything about distilling?”
“I know the gist, but Blister Creek isn’t exactly a hotbed of expertise in alcohol.”
“Ethanol. Wood alcohol. Not for drinking.”
She pulled the canvas tarp from the bulky object on the porch, which turned out to be a surprisingly sophisticated apparatus of tanks, boilers, and copper piping.
“That’s quite a setup. Whatever for?”
“All sorts of things,” she said. “Medicinal purposes. Fuel. A little tinkering and you could run tractors on the stuff. Let’s call it a hedge against the disruption of gasoline.”
“I can’t tell if you’re playing with me,” Jacob said, “or if you’re the nuttiest of the nutcases around here.”
“Am I a—what did you call it?—Last Dazer, you mean?” She shrugged. “Right now I’m experimenting. I’ve got a stack of books about going off the grid, and I’m trying to teach myself all the old skills. When you and I were born they barely had electricity in Blister Creek. Now half the town has cable TV, Internet, cell phones. That’s fine, so long as it lasts. But when the new tech fails, it would be useful if we remembered the old ways too.”
“Plenty of people still know. Well, maybe not distilling. But we might be the most self-sufficient community this side of the Amish. Let’s keep the still quiet, though. Don’t want people to think you’re making moonshine.”
She pulled the canvas back into place.
Jacob tucked the diary into the nightstand and retrieved the reader he’d found in Grandma Cowley’s cellar all those years ago. He opened it to page sixty-four, where Grandma had underlined a passage.
There’s a monster at first seems an angel of light
And he flies on beautiful wings
CHAPTER TEN
Jacob pulled back on the reins when he saw the woman holding a rifle. He maneuvered his horse to keep the boys behind him and approached slowly. The woman shaded her eyes with one hand, then appeared to relax when they got closer.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Who were you expecting?” Jacob asked. He climbed down from the saddle and then helped Daniel and Diego off the second horse.
“Nobody. That was the problem.” Rebecca tucked the rifle discreetly inside the front door and pulled the door shut.
The highlights had faded from her hair as it had grown out. Its natural color was a shade of auburn. Even without makeup she was an attractive woman, still relatively young—perhaps a few years older than Jacob—and he supposed it was a good idea for herto keep a gun at hand if she insisted on living so far out here by herself.
Something bulky and machinelike sat on the porch beneath a tarp and drew his attention. She followed his gaze but didn’t address his curiosity.
“Out for a ride with the boys?” she asked.
“Target shooting with the rifles. Besides, the house is a construction site and they were getting underfoot.” Jacob tousled Daniel’s hair. He was sweaty and dusty from the ride. “Lead the horses down to the creek and let them graze. You boys can take a swim. I’ll be a few minutes.” When they’d taken the horses away, he said, “A kid who is with Dad can’t get in trouble. Idle hands and all that.”
She smiled. “So you put rifles in their hands?”
“Better shooting aluminum cans than birds and stop signs. Anyway, Diego is fine. I’m keeping him around to help keep an eye on Daniel.”
“Is Daniel giving you grief?”
“He’s a good kid—it’s not that I don’t trust him.” He chose his words carefully. “My son has what you might call a Kimball problem. Do you know anything about that?”
“I might.”
“Like Annabelle Kimball. It seems to run in her line. Usually the boys, but not always.” He pulled out Grandma Cowley’s diary. “Time for answers. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe.” She took the book and tucked it into her apron. “Do you know anything about distilling?”
“I know the gist, but Blister Creek isn’t exactly a hotbed of expertise in alcohol.”
“Ethanol. Wood alcohol. Not for drinking.”
She pulled the canvas tarp from the bulky object on the porch, which turned out to be a surprisingly sophisticated apparatus of tanks, boilers, and copper piping.
“That’s quite a setup. Whatever for?”
“All sorts of things,” she said. “Medicinal purposes. Fuel. A little tinkering and you could run tractors on the stuff. Let’s call it a hedge against the disruption of gasoline.”
“I can’t tell if you’re playing with me,” Jacob said, “or if you’re the nuttiest of the nutcases around here.”
“Am I a—what did you call it?—Last Dazer, you mean?” She shrugged. “Right now I’m experimenting. I’ve got a stack of books about going off the grid, and I’m trying to teach myself all the old skills. When you and I were born they barely had electricity in Blister Creek. Now half the town has cable TV, Internet, cell phones. That’s fine, so long as it lasts. But when the new tech fails, it would be useful if we remembered the old ways too.”
“Plenty of people still know. Well, maybe not distilling. But we might be the most self-sufficient community this side of the Amish. Let’s keep the still quiet, though. Don’t want people to think you’re making moonshine.”
She pulled the canvas back into place.
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