The Devil You Know by Jo Goodman Page A

wrenched.”
    â€œOr your knee,” she repeated quietly. “Or any other part of you that’s scraped, cut, or peeled away. Some injuries are going to pain you worse before they get better, so you have to be prepared for that. I think—”
    â€œIf I live,” he said. “I have to be prepared for it, if I live.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    He turned his head a fraction toward her and opened his eye. “But you’re more worried about my head.”
    Now that he could see her, she nodded. “I don’t know how to judge the state of your faculties without asking you questions and hearing your answers.”
    â€œSo annoying me with them was intentional.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut the number of questions you asked . . .”
    â€œTo keep you awake.”
    â€œAnd the kind of questions . . .”
    â€œTo learn as much as I could as quickly as possible.”
    â€œSo you will know where to send the body.”
    â€œDo not flatter yourself that I would go to the trouble or spend the money. I am only sending notification. You’ll go in the ground here.”
    He stared at her with his one good eye, and then a chuckle began to vibrate his chest. Wincing, he pressed the arm in the sling against his injured ribs to hold them steady.
    Willa smirked. “About the only thing you have not strained, sprained, or swollen is your funny bone, but you keep laughing like that and it’s going to kill you.”
    He caught his breath and waited until the pain in his side passed before he spoke. “I take your point.”
    â€œGood.” She sat up. “Now tell me about your brother. Does he still live in Illinois?” Willa was not certain he meant to answer her, but it turned out that the reply was only a long time coming.
    â€œWhatever happens, you don’t involve him.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œI mean it.”
    She did not understand, but she acquiesced. “All right.”
    â€œEver,” he said.
    â€œAll
right
.” When he continued to eye her, she said, “I am not taking a blood oath.”
    â€œHmm.” He blinked once and then turned his head to stare at the roof.
    She said, “When Cutter gets here with the poultice, you can rest. Sleep if you like, at least for a while. Zach will know how often to wake you.”
    He nodded, said nothing.
    â€œDo you want more white willow tea?” The cup had been empty when Cutter took it away. “Zach can brew more.”
    â€œNo. It was enough.”
    â€œI am going up to the house to see what’s taking so long. Don’t let Cutter rile you when he comes back with the poultice. Rest. I’ll look in on you tomorrow morning.”
    â€œElm Street,” he said suddenly. “Twenty-two Elm Street. Herring, Illinois. The Reverend and Mrs. James McKenna.”
    Willa’s lips parted. She stared at him while he continued to stare at the rafters.
    â€œMy parents’ address,” he said. “In the event you need it.”
    â€œI don’t think I will. I’ve changed my mind. You’re too ornery to die on us.”

Chapter Three
    Israel Court McKenna did wake the next morning and had to sort through several simultaneous thoughts to make sense of any one of them.
    First and foremost, there was the fact that he was awake and wished that he was not. For the time it took to draw a full breath, he wished he were dead and meant it. There was no part of him that did not hurt. His hair hurt, for God’s sake. Every strand.
    He grasped at another thought, scrabbling the sheet with his fingers as though the thought had real weight and texture and substance. The woman—Willa—had said he was too ornery to die, and she might have been right. Probably was. He had been cursed all his life for his disobedience, his willfulness, and he had never been in a position to claim he stood opposed to things as a matter of