Stony River by Ciarra Montanna Page A

she was glad she didn’t have to leave this place yet, when she was just beginning to discover it. Her thoughts found their way back up the mountain to the handbuilt cabin under the shaggy spruce trees…to the fleecy lambs capering in their spring-green pastures…and to the shepherd, whose deep eyes were an enigma, harboring secrets of both darkness and light. And she wondered if when she climbed the trail again, what she had found at its end would prove real—for it all seemed very like a dream.
    No, she wasn’t ready to give up on this place yet; there was too much to catch and stir her interest. And she wasn’t ready to give up on Fenn, either. Beneath it all she loved him, and the truth of that was as solid as the quartzite boulder serving as her creekfront chair. As long as she was there, she resolved to try harder to overlook his animosity, and not be so quick to abandon the possibility that she might still find him to be the brother she remembered him to be.
    When she arrived home, Fenn was already back and hammering up on the roof of the house. She climbed the ladder to see the row of cedar shakes he was nailing down. The aromatic cedarwood tickled her nose. “Why are you putting on a new roof?” she asked, resting her arms on the top rung.
    “Old one leaks.”
    That statement was meant to end the conversation conclusively, but it didn’t. Sevana still had more questions. “Were these buildings here when you bought the place?”
    “They were.”
    “How did you ever find this place, Fenn?”
    “Just luck, I guess.” Another shake was laid, the nail in place, and he was reaching for his hammer.
    “But what brought you to this certain valley?”
    He gave her an ill-humored stare. “I was looking for some peace and quiet.” He began to hammer noisily.
    “I’d like to help out around here, too, if there’s anything I can do,” she offered when the nail was in.
    He glanced up in surprise, but answered readily enough: “If you did the laundry, I could get by without going to town a while longer.” And while Sevana thought going to town sounded like a good idea—even necessary, where groceries were concerned—Fenn apparently did not.
    “I’d be glad to,” she said, for she was truly willing to undertake anything that would be a help to him.
    Fenn laid aside his hammer at once to carry out the plan. He followed her down the ladder to build a fire in the kitchen stove and haul water, filling a large tub on its top. Then he dropped a heavy dufflebag in the middle of the floor and went out again, leaving her no idea how best to proceed.
    While Fenn was up on the roof pounding down another row of shakes, Sevana was inside with a steaming washtub, wrestling with a task that was seeming all the time greater and more difficult. But she was not totally forsaken in her perplexity, for Fenn—taking more than usual interest in the project since it was saving him considerable trouble—came in after a while to haul more water and offer helpful advice. “What the hell, Sevana, do you know what you are doing?” he exclaimed, viewing the heaps of wrungout clothes and the steady streams of water running off the edge of the counter into puddles expanding by the minute on the floor.
    “No, of course not,” she replied, a little put out because she was finding it so confusing. She pushed her damp hair back from her hot face. “I’ve never done this before.”
    Fenn, who had done the wash at least a few times in his life on the homestead, knew enough to set her straight. Then he strung a rope across the back porch for a clothesline and returned to the roof.
    When Sevana was done draping the sodden clothes over the line, she doubted they were much cleaner, but hoped the sun and fresh air would have some effect on them. She looked up the ladder to announce she was done.
    “Thanks, Sevana,” said Fenn. “Leave the water; I’ll take care of it later.”
    Sevana felt like the whole world was bright at the kind