Until the Harvest by Sarah Loudin Thomas Page A

hate worse than a liar is a thief. Course that ’un,” he pointed at the carcass with his chin, “is about to repay me for them chickens.”
    He finished counting and looked from his son to Henry. “Seems you boys are short.” Clint thumbed through the bills again. “I figure there oughta be another fifty dollars in here. Don’t suppose ole Jack shorted you?”
    “He might’ve, Pa.” Charlie kicked his chair back on two legs and looked unconcerned.
    Henry had been afraid of what Clint would do when he saw the car, but this was a new fear coiling in his belly. He knew men had been gunned down for less than fifty dollars. He eyed the rifle leaning against the edge of the porch.
    Clint’s hand shot out and knocked the chair from under Charlie. “You want to try again, boy?”
    Charlie yelped and lay still, grimacing and holding his hurt leg. “Could be I give some money to them girls last night.”
    Henry blanched. They’d been paid?
    “Boy, if you ain’t the dumbest cuss I ever knew.” Clint whirled on Henry. “And you. Why’d you let him do a fool thing like that?”
    “I didn’t know.” Henry held his hands out in front of him as though trying to fend off what he was hearing. “I was drinking and . . . I didn’t know.”
    “Guess you thought she was after you for your good looks and winsome ways,” Clint said with a sneer. “You got a lot to learn, and this here is lesson number one. I’m taking the fifty dollars outta your pay.”
    Henry tried to swallow but couldn’t work up any spit. He guessed he was getting off easy, and after what he’d done the night before, he deserved much, much worse. But Clint wasn’t finished.
    “And I reckon you owe me another eighty for what you done to my car.” He spit and peeled a twenty off the dirty roll of bills in his hand. He wadded it up and threw it at Henry’s feet. “You want to drive for me again, maybe you’ll be more careful.”
    Henry picked the money up and stuck it in his pocket. He wasn’t sure he wanted to drive for Clint again, but at the same time he didn’t want the moonshiner to think he’d lost his nerve. He nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
    Clint cackled and kicked Charlie’s good leg when he’d finally managed to disentangle himself from the chair and sit up. Charlie grimaced, but didn’t make a sound.
    “You hear that boy? He called me ‘sir.’ Might be you could learn a thing or two from this one.” He turned back to Henry. “Now git on home. I’ll send word next time I need you.”
    Henry got his fiddle from the Barracuda and tried not to run to his truck. He climbed in, hoping the thing would start in the cold. He felt so desperate he actually whispered a prayer, asking God to get him out of there. The often temperamental truck started on the first try, and Henry drove home, taking care on the now slippery roads. He thought to thank God for the help, but when he considered what he’d been up to lately, he decided the truck starting was coincidence. No way would God want to help him now.

    Margaret stirred some chicken soup on the stove and then reached bowls down from the cabinet, along with a box of oyster crackers. She’d used Emily’s recipe, and the soup smelled wonderful—with lots of carrots, celery, egg noodles, and a chicken that had gotten too old to lay. Emily said it was best to stew a chicken that old, so they’d settled on making soup.
    Emily bustled into the kitchen and poured iced tea into two glasses as they settled at the dinette with their lunch. They sat and bowed their heads.
    “Father, bless this food for the nourishment of our bodies and bless the hands that prepared it. We thank thee for thy bountiful blessings. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
    Margaret wondered if God was actually listening to Emily. She hadn’t talked to Him much herself. Her mother took them to church most Sundays—the big Methodist church in town. It was the perfect opportunity for Lenore to wear her best clothesand gossip