Stony River by Ciarra Montanna Page B

everything, but had a feeling she was better off not knowing. Once the biscuits were in the oven, Fenn went out on the front porch to finish his beer.
    With a little time on her hands, Sevana returned to the woodpile. Chopping wood was a novelty to her, a challenge not yet well-mastered. She decided that for practice she would attempt the formidable round she had passed up the first time.
    When Fenn appeared in the doorway to announce that dinner was ready, he found her with jaw clamped tight and wisps of hair coming loose from her braid as she tried to dislodge the blade from the large log round—which had been further scarred by her inaccurate blows and even chipped off a little on one edge, but was otherwise very much intact.
    Something like amusement flickered momentarily in his face as he took hold of the handle and twisted it free in a single motion. “Leave the chopping block alone, Sevana,” he said, handing the axe back to her. “It’s not going to do me any good in pieces.”
    Sevana’s eyes grew big as she viewed the scarred stump in that new light. Propping the axe against it with a sigh, she trailed him into the house. Before sitting down, she purposely filled her cup with water instead of milk.
    Over the fish stew—which she did not particularly relish, even though the thought of salmon was much more reassuring than bear—she announced, “I met the shepherd today.”
    “Wilder?” Fenn regarded his delicate, city-bred sister with some surprise. “What possessed you to go that far up the trail?”
    “I wanted to find a view,” she said. “And I did, too. Oh Fenn, it was splendid! Wouldn’t that be the way to live—so high in the mountains with the sheep?”
    “It’d be a good life, all right. Wouldn’t have to deal with anybody.” There was a hard glint in his eye as he said it.
    She offered to do the dishes that night, and Fenn didn’t object. He brought in a bucket of water for her, and then—evidently impressed by what he’d witnessed earlier—chopped enough sticks to fill the woodbox to overflowing.
    When Sevana went out on the porch later, Fenn was seated on the front steps with his chainsaw beside him, scraping the teeth with a round file. “What are you doing?” she asked, taking a place on the bench.
    “Sharpening my chain.”
    She thought the way his hair fell over his forehead while he worked made him look more boyish. “It’s a nice evening, isn’t it?” she said, hoping he would meet her eyes and smile, to let her know he liked having her there. But he didn’t look up or hesitate in the methodical passes of his file.
    She began to polish her nails a glossy mulberry, even though she doubted there was much point to the ritual if she was going to keep chopping wood and washing dishes every day. Suddenly Fenn confronted her with a question. “Did you go in my room today?”
    She nearly jumped at the direct inquiry. She wanted to deny it, but was afraid he would see through it. “Yes, I did,” she confessed. “But only to see if you had any good books. I didn’t bring very many.” She wondered why he asked. It seemed he knew she had, and was only asking to accuse her.
    “Did you take any?”
    “No,” she said. You didn’t have any, she added to herself.
    “If you want books, ask me first,” he said. “Otherwise, stay out of there.” He took a drink from the brown bottle beside him.
    In the uneasy pause that fell back between them, Joel’s truck was first heard and then seen rattling at a brisk clip down the mountain. Sevana waved a freshly lacquered hand, but Joel didn’t look their direction on his way past the homestead. She wondered where he was going so fast and intent that he didn’t even have the presence of mind to acknowledge his only neighbors. He hadn’t mentioned going anywhere that evening.
    She had just finished the other hand when a bird shrilled into the evening silence—a piercing note that lingered after itself in the stillness. To Sevana