Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
VIRGIL
“ M ister?” Helen asks, shielding her eyes and staring up at me. I straddle the cabin’s steep roof, nails between my teeth and a hammer in hand.
Found some extra shingles in the garage last night. They’re not perfect, but they’ll keep out the moisture.
“Yeah?” I grunt through clenched teeth.
“Vir-gull?” Luke echoes, craning his neck to look up at me. “What are you doing up there?”
What does it look like I’m doing? Kids!
Helen hugs herself, glancing down at her little brother. “Told you it wasn’t Santa.”
“Yeah,” Luke says dejected.
That makes me laugh despite myself, and I have to work to keep the nails in my mouth.
I go back to hammering, ignoring the onslaught of questions that follow. Last thing I need is a full interrogation while I work.
Finally, they both get distracted by a fuzzy caterpillar on the rough bark of a pine tree before tearing back into the house.
Good riddance. I’ll get a lot more done without them around.
Don’t know how you did it, Bryson.
Far as I’m concerned, it’s hard enough to make it in the Sierra backcountry without having to worry about other mouths to feed. Or who you might end up disappointing.
A flutter of motion down below catches my eye. Clara. Face stern and unreadable, hair pulled into a severe bun.
She used to wear these floral dresses. Bright things. Easy to spot from halfway across a meadow.
Now she's swallowed by one of Bryson's old flannels.
“Really?” she asks.
“Better than the bucket,” I grunt, not looking at her then feeling guilty, so I add, “Storm did a number on everything.”
Her eyes wander off toward the fence. The thing I haven’t tackled yet because truly it’s not a one-person job.
“Roof was like that before,” she says flatly. “Bry—” her voice cracks. “Always promised he’d fix it. But…” She looks down, hands fidgeting in front of her.
“He always was a better angler and hunter than a home repairman.”
She startles, looking up at me. Anger flashes, somehow icy and simmering in the same instant. But it settles into her shoulders, not her words.
Instead, she agrees, “You lost a friend that day, too. Sorry, I sometimes forget about that.”
I grimace, trying to play off how hard the words land. I’ve been angry at him, too. For not taking better care. For making the kind of foolish mistake a newb doesn’t come back from.
“He was out scouting elk,” I say, though she doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to know either. Our eyes meet. For whatever its worth, I add, “Doing what he loved.”
She puts a hand over her mouth, face guarded. Eyes trained on the ground. Then she disappears back into the house, leaving me to descend the rickety ladder alone.
I didn’t want to say anything. Didn’t want to ask for help, but heights have never been my thing. That’s why I had to start there, with the thing that I won’t do if I have too much time to think about it.
That’s where Bryson and I were different. He was always ready to dive in. Try something different. Step outside his comfort zone.
Stepped outside alright.
From the roof, the repairs get easier. I bury big rocks in the hole something’s been digging to get into the chicken coop. The big brown hens prance and call, fluffing feathers and sauntering around.
“No rooster?” I ask Luke when he comes out to collect eggs with a big basket.
“Papa kilt him,” he says, quirking his mouth in concentration when he sticks his hand beneath each broody hen. One pecks him, and he howls as if he lost a finger. But then his eyes narrow, determination in his eyes when he goes for some more. “Said he’d spur me in the face.”
I nod. “They can fly pretty high sometimes.”
He fills the basket, brushing straw carefully from the eggs.
“Don’t forget the scratch,” Helen says, rounding the coop and heading for the large rubbermaid container where they keep feed.
“Never had bear trouble with that?” I ask, eyeing it.
She shrugs. “Nope.”
“Huh,” I say. “Lucky.”
“Papa says the bears stayed away because they knew he’d shoot ‘em.”
“Sounds like your father,” I grunt. “No one here to shoot ‘em now, though, so you best be careful.”
Luke squints at me. “But you’re here.”
“No,” I say too fast. We don’t need to go there. After all, this is only temporary.
“Looks like you’re cooking tonight,” I say, glancing at the big basket of eggs.
Luke’s mouth forms a surprised O. “Mama won’t let me work the stove. Says I’m not old enough.”
Helen wipes her hands together, removing scratch dust. “She’s right. You’d burn down the cabin.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But tonight, you’re cooking with me. Sound good?”
Luke’s face lights up, an ear-to-ear grin capturing his mouth. “Did you hear that, sis?”
“You shouldn’t be smiling like that,” Helen says. “It’s too soon.”
“Too soon?” I ask.
“Since… you know.”
The corners of my mouth tilt down. I don’t know what to say, so I ignore it.
“Got plenty to do before dinner, though,” I finally say, surveying the yard. Fallen trees are everywhere. I could take a chainsaw to the entire backyard and still have six months’ work.
“Now that the roof’s good,” Luke asks. “Can you get us power again?”
“Not up to me.”
Helen eyes me, hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of her T-shirt.
“You look worried,” I say.
She hesitates. Then her gaze meets mine. “Need more kerosene.”
“Got you covered,” I say.
Relief flashes across her face before she can stop it. Just for a second. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, too.
Then she seems to realize she's doing it.
The smile disappears.
Her hand flies to her lips, eyes darting between me and Luke.
“Sorry,” she says quietly.
The word catches me off guard.
“For what?”
Her shoulders hunch. “I don't know.”
For smiling, I realize. For feeling something besides grief. The realization sits heavy in my chest.
I want to tell her there's nothing wrong with it. That her father would want her to laugh. That Bryson would've given anything to see either of his kids smile again.
But I can't. Not yet. Because right now the grief's still too raw for words like that.
“Marshmallows?” I ask instead.
“What?” Luke scrunches his nose, setting the metal pail of eggs down and putting his hands on his hips.
Helen steps closer, still inside the chicken enclosure, scrutinizing me through the hardware cloth.
I run a hand over my beard. “Marshmallows. It’s all I’ve got in my cabin that’s sweet. That do for dessert?”
Luke licks his lips, eyes already greedy. That’s enough answer for me.
I eye the bucket once more. “Alright then, eggs for dinner. I’ll bring over some salt pork and potatoes.”
Both kids eye me awkwardly.
“And what else?” I tease, grumpy but amused.
“Marshmallows,” the two kids say in chorus.
“Oh, yeah, right. Marshmallows. Almost forgot.”