Free One Shenandoah Winter by Davis Bunn Page B

laugh with the simple joy of living.
    Too soon Connie pulled up in front of a ramshackle log cabin. The feeling passed as she cut the motor and muttered, “What on earth is he doing here?”
    In the place of momentary joy rose a more familiar sadness. A wishing he could recapture whatever it was that had been there in that brief sweet instant. He followed her angry glare and saw a brand new Chevy pickup parked to one side of the cabin. “Who is it?”
    â€œNever mind.” Her tone was terse, her movements very controlled as she opened her door and climbed from the car. “Come on.”
    She walked over to where an old man was looking down at a metal washtub, his hands on his knees. A young boy knelt by his feet, and a tall handsome man stood alongside. They all were laughing. Only Connie’s face was tight. As Nathan followed her toward the group, he knew an instant’s regret for having provoked such a mood on such a pretty day.
    The younger man noticed their approach, looked up, and stiffened in wary surprise. He was tall and lanky in a manner Nathan had come to recognize during his time up here, muscles like steel strapped to a frame etched from the hills themselves.
    He wiped nervous hands down his trouser legs. “Well, hi there, Miss Connie. Poppa Joe said I could come by and—”
    â€œI’ll get to you in a minute, Duke Langdon.” She stopped by the washtub, gave the contents one glance, then said to the old man, “I brought him like you said. Now you can settle something once and for all. When did you buy your Hudson pickup?”
    The old man seemed to unwind as he rose to full height. He was taller even than the young man, a rickety giant of a man.
    Nathan could not help but stare. The old man had a face carved of the same granite as the mountains. His chin pushed out to where it appeared ready to touch the hawk-billed nose. Silver hair as thick as a lion’s mane swept back from a broad flat forehead. But what planted Nathan firmly where he stood were the man’s eyes.
    Nathan’s first impression was of a painting come to life. The old man had the deep-hard gaze of pictures he had seen as a boy, pictures hanging on the walls of the Smithsonian in Washington. The paintings had sent shivers down his spine and seemed to bring all the history books alive. The faces were of Revolutionary War heroes, whose gazes had pierced with impossible determination. Their eyes had reached out to strike him where he stood, searching across the centuries and demanding of him to be more than what he found comfortable. They had always seemed to ask of the younger Nathan, Are you worthy? Have you earned what we fought and died for?
    The old man glanced his way only briefly, but it was enough to penetrate with that same severe passion. Poppa Joe said, “This is how you was brought up to introduce folks, daughter?”
    â€œNathan Reynolds, Joseph Wilkes. Everybody alive calls him Poppa Joe. And this is Duke Langdon. The boy I don’t know.” She waved it all aside with an impatient gesture. “Now tell me when you bought your truck, Poppa Joe.”
    â€œThe boy’s name is Henry, Hank for short,” Duke offered. His voice carried traces of the same tone and manner as Poppa Joe’s. As did his face—all overlaid with the softness of an easier life. “He’s the child of some good friends of mine. Say hello to Miss Connie and the doc, Hank.”
    The boy mumbled something, not looking up from the washtub.
    Poppa Joe Wilkes looked blown from the cannon of untrammeled adventure. There was not an ounce of fat on his frame, nor a single soft line to his face. And his eyes. “I bought that there Hudson Terraplane in nineteen and thirty-six. And it sounds to me like you two have done climbed my mountain with a quarrel.”
    â€œThere. Nineteen thirty-six. Just like I said.” But there was no triumph to her tone. Connie crossed her arms