“So quick?” George said. “There’s no rush, really. Besides, you mentioned hunting that beast with me. If I may remind you.”
Prentiss put down the potatoes. Up until that moment he’d forgotten what he’d told George the previous night. He’d been so lost in the old man’s suffering he would have told him they were born of the same mother if he thought it would bring him some kernel of peace.
“I ain’t forget,” he said.
George clasped his hands together behind his back.
“How would you feel about a short expedition now? As I return home.”
Prentiss’s feet ached from the walk. The coolness of the forest had nearly lulled him to sleep just standing there. Landry meanwhile was scrutinizing the knit of the socks, happy to tend to himself, and his brother’s fascination with the gift led Prentiss to consider George in a new light. If the man wanted a stroll in the woods, a stroll he would give him.
“I don’t see no reason why not,” he said.
George smiled encouragingly.
Prentiss looked back to Landry, content before the fire, then started off with George. He thought he might ask about the animal in question—which, at least according to the description George had given, he had neither heard of nor seen in his life.
But George cut him off before he could begin. The man’s eyes grew slant, looking around as if someone might hear what was to follow.
“Are you familiar with peanuts, Prentiss?”
“Peanuts?”
“Cultivating peanuts. Surely you’re aware of the plant.”
“What you gettin’ at?”
The edge of George’s mouth flickered in discouragement, but he was not dissuaded.
“I mean to use this land. I have to, if I’m to make enough money to keep it. But I would need some help. I’ve given it more thought than you might imagine.”
Prentiss knew white men liked to hear answers of their choosing, but the problem with George was that his questions were never quite clear enough to hint at the suggested response. Under the spell of hunger and the exhaustion of the day, he found it near impossible to discern how to appease him.
“You, Landry, and I,” George said. “We could learn the business together. Would that be amenable to you? If you were to stay?”
What was wrong with this man? The only ailment Prentiss could assign to him was a bout of loneliness, the same affliction that had shadowed him the night before.
“Forgive me, Mr. Walker. George. But I just got rid of one owner. I ain’t looking for another. Now, it’s been a long day, and we best get on. I do wish you the best,” he said, and turned to go.
“Don’t be silly. We can get you some lodging. And I’ll pay you like any other man. You can get yourself some food, proper clothes.”
“I can’t be of help,” Prentiss said. “But you take care.” He started off again, faster this time.
“I’ll bring some food by tonight anyhow, we got a stew cooking, I believe—”
“Why can’t you take no for an answer, mister?” Prentiss said. He whirled back to face George. “We ain’t your help. Now you know I don’t mean nothin’ by it, but I must be gettin’ back to my brother.”
The pain in George’s face, so immense it might split him two, was momentary, and he managed to disguise it with a grin.
“Of course,” he said. “You take care as well, Prentiss.”
Prentiss would have apologized, for he’d glimpsed how fragile George was, but the old man had spun too quickly and set off.
“Can you find your way?” Prentiss called out.
No words came back to him, and the woods sat silent in the old man’s absence. He turned then to find his brother at his backside, looking on, studiously.
“I ain’t mean for it to come out as it did,” Prentiss said, walking to meet him. “I made a go at being polite, but they try you. They always tryin’ you.”
CHAPTER 6
His love had never been gracious, and he had no means to recognize what Isabelle might require of him—the necessities of her grief. There were few times as a grown man he could recall being intimidated, but the door to Caleb’s room, where she had locked herself up, was so overwhelming that he had to lean against the hallway wall just to settle his bones. He moved forward, reassured by the sliver of lamplight that reached under the doorframe and lazed over his feet—the only signal that she was within.
“Isabelle.” Somehow his voice cracked even on the single word. He stepped back and put his hands on his hips, then stepped forward to try again. “Isabelle,” he said, “I’ve made a stew.”