Page 93 of The River We Remember

Yours with gratitude and love,

Holly

“So, what did she say?”

Scott gave the note to his friend. Del read it and whistled. “I’ll bet you could get to second or maybe even third base with her now, Madman.”

Which was something that hadn’t even entered Scott’s mind and sullied the moment for him just a little.

“Hey,” Del said. “I’ve got a great idea. Remember that gun I showed you? Creasy’s twenty-two?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to do a little target practice this afternoon?”

“Where?”

“The gravel pit south of town.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Madman. It’ll be a blast.”

“After yesterday, my mom won’t let me out of her sight for more than an hour.”

“Okay, we’ll keep it to an hour.”

Scott had to admit, the offer excited him. He’d never shot a gun before, not ever, and the idea of it was a siren call.

“All right,” he said. “But it’ll have to be after the lunch rush. Mom and Grandma and Wendell will need me at the Wagon Wheel.”

“Okay. Say two?”

And so it was agreed, and the course it would eventually take Scott Madison and Del Wolfe down was set and the sun went on rising and the morning went on around them as if the world either had no idea of the sorrow ahead or did not care.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

THEY QUIT THEIR work at noon, and Kyoko went into the little house to prepare a meal. Connie Graff washed himself at the pump beside the barn, which was the only source of water on Bluestone’s farmstead. There was no running water in the house, and Kyoko—or Bluestone when he’d been there—had to carry it to the house in a bucket to heat on the stove for the cleaning of dishes or before filling the washtub for laundry. For cleaning himself and his wife, Bluestone had built a little wooden tower six feet high next to the pump. Atop the tower was a platform on which sat an opaque ten-gallon plastic container filled with water that was heated by the sun. Near the bottom of the container, Bluestone had inserted a spigot to which was affixed the spout of a watering can. Turning the spigot released a little shower of sun-warmed water. The man had also poured a slab of concrete on which to stand and a trough for the water to drain away. There was a little shelf on the wooden tower where a bar of soap sat, and a towel hung on one of the tower’s crossbeams. There was no curtain to shield the area from prying eyes, and Graff knew that Kyoko showered in the evening after he’d gone. It was a primitive way to live, and yet Connie Graff felt only a sense of contentment from the young woman Noah Bluestone had married.

She called him into the cool of the house, where the table was laid with simple food—rice mixed with pork and vegetables and flavored with ginger and other spices.

“You are good at farming. You could be Japanese,” she said, teasing.

“Too tall,” he shot back.

“And too disrespectful.”

“To you?”

“To the sheriff.”

“Ah. Well, Brody and I go way back. He’ll come around.”

“You’re not like him,” Kyoko said.

Graff put down the chopsticks, which he was becoming adept at using. “I beg your pardon?”

“He’s a sad man. But you’re not.”