Chapter Thirty-One

Carina awoke in the pre-dawn hour and couldn't go back to sleep. She got up and went into the kitchen where she found Amalia at the kitchen table, reading by the light of an oil lamp. She looked up when Carina entered the room, the fine lines around her eyes unusually distinct in the uncertain light.

"You're up early," Carina said.

"No, I'm up late."

Carina filled the coffee pot. "He won't come home just because you're waiting all night for him."

"That's not why I'm doing it." Amalia shut the heavy book. "I was worried he might've sent someone to raid us. I couldn't sleep, not knowing if we were safe."

Carina stole a glance around the room but saw no binoculars or gun. What she did see though, was a glass on the table, still almost a quarter full of whiskey.

"I don't see how you were able to sleep," Amalia went on. "Knowing that we might be in danger, knowing that something could've happened—"

"Well, I figured you were probably handling things," Carina lied. "It's not like I slept well. I kept waking up and finally decided there wasn't much point to keep on trying." She reached into the cupboard. "Will you want some coffee?"

"Sure. Were you going to make breakfast, too?"

Carina shrugged.

"It's okay if you're not hungry," Amalia said. "Maybe I'll just have some more of that soup from last night."

"I can make us a proper breakfast," Carina said without enthusiasm.

"A proper breakfast is whatever we say it is."

"In that case, how about I make us some cornbread to go with it?"

"If you insist." Amalia opened her book again. A few minutes later, Carina was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at nothing, as if breakfast were too daunting a task to undertake under the circumstances. Amalia sighed and went over to her. "Honestly, love," she said, putting an arm around her sister's shoulders. "The cornbread doesn't matter."

* * *

Later in the day, the women sat on the porch listlessly hulling pecans from a batch they had traded for from a neighbor along the creek. It was tedious work, made more so by the chill November air that stiffened their fingers, but the house seemed stifling today. They cracked the dark wooden shells, fastidiously picked out the meats and tossed them into a bowl, keeping an eye out for any change to the horizon. Toward mid-afternoon, Amalia's eyes fixed on a distant point and she paused in her work. "Looks like a little bit of dust toward the mountain road.”

Carina squinted into the distance. "Could be anything."

"I guess it could."

They went back to their work. The dust cloud grew larger.

"Should we be worried?" Carina asked.

"I don't think so. Seems to be only one person and raiders usually travel in groups." Nevertheless, Amalia went inside and got a shotgun.

"Why don't you get the binoculars, too?"

"Haven't seen them."

"Maybe Donovan took them."

Amalia didn't resume shelling nuts. Instead she watched the dust intensify and moved to the edge of the porch to get a better view.

"It's got to be him,” Carina said.

"Where would he have gotten a horse?"

"He could've gotten it anywhere, but I'm sure it's him."

The two women hurried down the path to the road. To be on the safe side, Amalia kept the shotgun with her, but kept the safety on.

As soon as the rider noticed the two figures standing at the gate, he kicked the horse into a canter. Hollering and holding on for dear life, Donovan swooped the Peterson's little mare between the gateposts and down the garden path, pulling up sharply by the kitchen door. He turned around in the saddle, breathless and excited as the women ran up to him.

"Donovan! We're so glad—"

"Where the hell have you been?"

Donovan dismounted and stood before them, dusty and beaming. "I had to run an errand." While the women sputtered and asked questions, he pulled a heavy pack off his saddle and held it out to Carina.

"What is it?"

"Open it up and look."

Amalia scowled. "Why don't you just tell us what it is?"

Donovan rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. "It's your Thanksgiving turkey."

* * *

That evening as Donovan slept, the women whispered in Carina's room.

"That's some story he told," Amalia said. "I don't believe it for a minute."

"I'm sure the part about Diana lending him the mare is true."

"I didn't mean that. I hope the poor girl doesn't get in trouble over it."

"I checked the horse good and sent it back with a bag of oats. I believe Donovan paid some money, too. That should smooth things over."

"I don't know why you would try to cover for him."

"I was covering for Diana, but like it or not, Donovan is family, and we have to start thinking of him that way."

"I'm not used to having family members who steal."

Carina sighed. "The turkey.”

"Yes, that damn turkey. I don't care what his convoluted story is, there's no way he paid money for it."

"Well, I know it's wrong of me, and if he stole it from anyone else I'd be angry, but look at who he got it from. Those God's Candidates folks are scary."

"That doesn't make it right to steal from them."

"They shot that Indian boy a few years back, remember? All he wanted was a drink of water and directions to the main road."

"So they're mean, evil people. Two wrongs—"

"Stop your moralizing. I didn't say I felt good about it."

"But you'll cook that turkey anyway."

"I can't let it go to waste." Carina fixed her sister with a sly smile. "If I suggested we throw it on the compost pile, you'd pitch a fit. You don't like waste any more than I do. What's your real issue? Maybe you're just disappointed he's not what you thought he might be?"

"What do you mean?"

"He told me about the fun you two had at the restaurant in Macrina. I think he turned your head a little."

"Don't be silly. He's what, fifteen years younger than me?"

"So? It's been a long time. Maybe you should have some fun. It doesn't have to be serious."

Amalia stood up. "I can see this conversation is going nowhere."

"Okay. Just don't give him a hard time about the turkey. It's a good one, no matter how he got it."

Amalia started toward her room, then on a whim peeked in on Donovan. He lay sprawled across the bed, still in his dusty clothes, looking like nothing could wake him.

She folded her arms and leaned against the door frame. How could someone who looked so innocent be a thief? Could one even trust a face like that? She stepped into the room and covered him with a quilt.

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