Dance Away with Me(26)

Ian nodded. “That’s good.” He carefully stepped over a sapling that had fallen across the trail. “What have you been eating lately? You weigh a ton.” In truth, the eight-year-old didn’t weigh much at all.

Eli made a face. “Beans. We ate most of what Mom put up last summer, but the onions and mustard greens’ll be comin’ in soon.”

Eli sounded like a seasoned farmer. Ian kept the conversation going as he climbed toward the ridge. He asked him what new birds he’d identified, if he’d spotted any bear, how his homeschooling project on beekeeping was progressing. Finally, the bare-bones farm came into view.

The utilitarian house had unpainted wood siding and a couple of solar panels on the tin roof. The freshly plowed ground off to the left marked the vegetable garden. The outbuildings included an old tobacco barn, a goat pen, and a coop with a rudimentary wire chicken run. All of it was surrounded by a crude barbed wire fence guarded by a pair of barking dogs and a rangy man coming toward them with a rifle. “Stop right there!”

Ian wasn’t big on firearms, but he knew enough to recognize an AR-15.

“Dad!”

“Eli?” The man squinted into the morning sun.

“Eli ran into some trouble,” Ian called out.

“Rebecca!” The man rushed toward them across the rutted dirt yard, still carrying the assault rifle, but no longer pointing it at Ian’s chest. He fumbled with the gate one-handed as a slender, brown-haired woman came out the front door. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Eli!” The man set the rifle against the gatepost and hurried toward them. “What happened?”

“Eli cut his leg on a piece of sheet metal at the old moonshine still,” Ian explained.

“Damn it, Eli! You should have known better.”

Eli’s mother raced to her son’s side, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Eli declared from his father’s arms.

His mother soothed him, worry etched in every line of her tired face. “Nobody said it was.”

“I say it was,” his father snapped. “You gotta be smarter, Eli.”

Ian stepped back. “He might need some stitches.”

“No stitches!” Eli howled.

“Let me see.” His mother’s hand shook as she started to unwrap the shirt binding her son’s leg.

Ian stopped her. “You need to leave that on until you get him to a doctor. The cut’s pretty deep.”

“Oh, baby . . .” The woman brushed Eli’s bangs from his eyes. She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties, with a long nose and sad eyes that turned down a bit at the corners. She and Eli shared the same straight dark hair and almost identically cut bangs. Her hair, however, hung lank and needed washing.

The man nodded at Ian. “Appreciate what you’ve done. We’ll take it from here.”

Something about the stiffness in his phrasing told Ian there’d be no doctor. “He needs medical attention.”

“We’re good at taking care of ourselves,” the man said firmly.

Unlike his wife, Paul had a stocky build and light, wiry hair. He wasn’t tall—maybe five foot eight—but his wide shoulders and bulky biceps testified to his strength.

From the look of the farm, the family was living off-the-grid, probably at a subsistence level, without the spare cash to pay for a doctor’s visit. This wasn’t his business, but he couldn’t walk away. “There’s a nurse down at the old schoolhouse,” he said reluctantly. “I’m sure she’d take a look at Eli in exchange for some fresh eggs. She’s one of those natural food fanatics.” A flat-out lie, but people had their pride.

“We need to take him, Paul.” The pleading note in the woman’s voice suggested her husband was a tough man to sway.

It was clear from Paul’s expression that he didn’t want to give in, but either because he knew his wife was right or he didn’t want a showdown in front of a stranger, he gave a curt nod.

The ancient Dodge Ram pickup’s dents and cracked windshield testified to years of hard use. Rebecca rode in the backseat, holding Eli, while Ian sat in front.

The family didn’t meet the popular stereotype of Tennessee mountain folk. Their accents were Southern, but not backwoods. They’d been homesteading for five years. Rebecca told Ian she and Paul had met during their freshman year at UT but didn’t reveal anything else other than their last name—Eldridge.

Tess was walking the floor with the baby as they came inside. The protective movement she made was slight—cupping her hand on the baby’s head, pulling her closer—but Ian didn’t miss it. As she saw the boy in his father’s arms, however, she was all business.

“Put him on the table.” She tilted her head toward the dining table and, predictably, handed the baby over to Ian. After carrying Eli, the baby was as light as sea foam in his arms, but that didn’t make holding her any more welcome.

“Hey, kiddo. I’m Tess. Ian, would you get the first aid kit? It’s above the stove.”

The last time he’d looked, there hadn’t been anything above the stove but a Christmas cookie tin that had come with the house. Now he found a bright yellow, tackle-size box Tess must have brought with her. Judging from its size, she wasn’t risking ever being caught again unprepared for an emergency.