Light to the Hills: A Novel (5)

Harley MacInteer only set foot outside the eastern Kentucky mountains for one brief turn near Lexington, lured by tales of rich landowners with sleek horses that could run like the devil had them by their tails. There wasn’t a horse born that Harley couldn’t ride, and his finished colts would no sooner run from a rifle shot than a bag of corn, they were that steady.

Lexington horses, he’d found, were something else altogether. Nervous and hot-tempered, they were bred to run in a circle, fast and long, until their legs gave out. Harley couldn’t see the use in that, and the men who lined up to lay their money down for a chance at the spectacle of the race were born fools, in his opinion. All folks wanted from a horse in the hill country was some sense between their ears and the ability to pull a straight furrow when asked. Many of those fancy horse outfits folded after the stock-market crash, scattering the light-footed Thoroughbreds over the state, and their highfalutin owners were in the same fix. So much for the racetrack leading to easy street. In the hills of Kentucky, there wasn’t any such address.

Rai poked her head out the door when Harley and Finn stomped up the porch steps. She picked up their lunch pails while they stopped to remove their boots, caked with mud and creased with several years’ wear.

“Got a visitor, mind. Supper’s ready when y’all are. I ’spect you’re hungry doin’ hay in between mine shifts.”

“What smells so good, Mama? Is that spiced apples?” Finn dropped his boot on the porch with a thunk. The two hounds nosed him up and down while he slipped out of the second one, and he nudged and patted their heads good-naturedly.

“Get cleaned up and you can come find out.”

Harley ran a hand through his thick hair, standing it on end. Not so many years ago, it had been a shade or two darker, but now, a few years past forty, wiry gray framed his temples. He splashed his hands in a bucket that had been set out on the porch for this purpose and palmed a cake of lye soap to scrub his hands and arms up to his elbows. While he was at it, he splashed cold water on his face and neck, rubbing the salty sheen from his skin. Finished, he tossed the soap to Finn, who caught it in both hands and stepped up to the bucket for his turn. A younger version of his father, at nineteen, Finn was tall and thin, his worn trousers hanging low on the bones of his hips. He was in peak physical shape, muscled and full of beans. His hair was pepper where his daddy’s was salt, and he dunked his whole head into the bucket and came up dripping. His eyes squeezed shut, Finn shook his head, standing his hair up in all directions and sending water all over the porch. Digger and Tuck beat a hasty retreat, their nosy enthusiasm doused, and trotted off to flop beneath the chestnut tree near the road.

“Dad-gummit, boy, I just got dried off good.” Harley yanked the towel from its nail and went at his face and neck again. “You’re no better’n those hounds, the way you shake after a bath.”

“It’s faster’n a towel, and cleans the porch off, too.” Finn caught the towel his daddy tossed to him, gave a cursory pass over his head with it, and threw it against the wall, where it caught on its nail. “Putting up hay is hot and scratchy.”

“You got that right.” Harley pushed Finn ahead of him into the house. “Least we can get a share of it for the stock come winter. We’ll be glad to have it then.”

Rai came inside with the men and began bustling around the table, laying plates and pots with Amanda and Fern, while Sass occupied Hiccup off in a corner to keep her out from underfoot. Rai smiled at the spectacle of Finn, with his spiky, dripping hair and the playful way he winked at Sass and poked Hiccup in the ribs. To her, he’d always be half-boy, half-man. He filled his broad chest with a big breath of air.

“Apple pie? How’d you manage that, Mama?” Finn stuck out a still-damp finger to poke the crust and received a swat across the back of his hand. The scrubbing on the front porch had removed the top layer of dirt, but coal work stained Finn’s nails a permanent purplish black.

“Supper comes first, and we have a visitor.” Rai cut her eyes at the woman, who finished laying plates and smoothed her hair back from her face. “This here’s Miz Amanda Rye. She’s a book woman workin’ for the president. She’s the one done brung us this pie.”

Finn seemed to notice the young woman for the first time, and he stood taller, his antics forgotten. He wiped his hand across the front of his pants and flashed a shy grin at her. Rai watched his eyes snatch a glance at the woman’s hand, where a thin gold band circled her finger. It occurred to her that Amanda was right pretty, wearing pants and a loose blouse and sweater, hair pinned up in a loose knot, and her cheeks all flushed from the heat of the stove. Amanda drew herself up and stuck out her hand.

“Mighty fine to meet you,” she said, her voice small but clear. Her reserved smile flashed quick across her lips as Finn clasped her fingers with his right hand and rubbed his scruffy whiskers with his left. In turn, Harley’s big paw closed over Amanda’s small one and gave it a brief tug. He nodded at her and took a seat at the table, his lips curving into a tentative grin.

“Reckon I’ll take apple pie often as I can get it. For the president, now? Long as it ain’t that great humanitarian, Mr. Herbert Hoover. Where’re you from, Miz Rye?”

Rai hovered over the table, gripping a pot she held with the edge of her apron. She spooned potatoes and onions onto each plate as Harley, Finn, and Cricket sat around the rough, wood-planked table. She motioned for the book woman to sit as a guest, and the remaining chair she would take for herself. Fern and Sass sat cross-legged on the chestnut puncheon floor by the hearth, where they took turns picking over bits of potato with their sister Hiccup, who licked the salt from her fingers after each bite.