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“If it’s no farther than that, you can easily make it before dark. If you start now.”
Beneath his beetled brow, Will’s eyes turned even more hostile. He shuffled forward a few inches and assumed a more combative stance.
Ordinarily, the subtle threat would have amused him. He would have been thinking, Go ahead, you hillbilly jackass, dare me. He would have waited for one or the other to co
me at him, and then he would have mopped the floor with both of them. He looked forward to that time. But today wasn’t the day. He had to take Emory’s safety into account.
“Walk, huh?” Norman glanced up at the sky and held out his palm to catch snowflakes. “Don’t look to me like this is gonna let up any time soon.” He scratched at something in his beard as he looked over his shoulder toward the truck. “For me ’n’ Will the walk wouldn’t be nothing. Even in this shit weather. ’Cept…”
He gestured behind him at the pickup.
* * *
Emory watched through a sliver of space between the window frame and the muslin curtain as the man she had tried unsuccessfully to seduce worked the combination on the padlock, went through the gate, and crossed the road to the wrecked pickup, where the passenger door stood ajar.
He bent down, looked inside, appeared to be speaking to someone. After a sixty-second conversation, he turned back to the two men. His expression was dark and dangerous. Tight-lipped, he said something to the pair, then strode through the gate and across the yard toward the cabin, leaving the gate open.
She backed away from the window as he burst through the door. “Stay out of sight, but keep an eye on them. Tell me what they’re doing.” He went to the end of the sofa, lifted it, and moved it several feet, then knelt and flipped back the corner of the carpet.
“What’s going on? Who are those men?”
“The brothers Floyd. Norman and Will.”
“Are they asking for your help with their truck?”
“It’s beyond help. They want a ride.”
“To where?”
“Their place. What are they doing?”
“Helping someone out of the pickup. Who’s that?”
“Their kid sister.”
During this terse exchange, he’d pulled up a section of the wood flooring. In the rectangular cavity under the floor was a metal locker like the one she’d found beneath the bed. He flipped the latches and raised the lid.
Firearms. Many. Of all types.
He lifted out a handgun, checked the clip, then tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and pulled down his sweater and coat to conceal it. While Emory stood there, mute with astonishment, he closed the trunk, replaced the flooring and the rug, and moved the sofa back into place.
He said, “Secret’s out,” and motioned down toward the hidden armory. “If the need arises, help yourself. Do you know how to shoot?”
She gaped at him as he went to the bed and stripped the pillowcase off the pillow. Then he picked up her shoes and tossed them into the pillowcase. “If you should run out of firewood before I get back—”
“Back?” she exclaimed. “You’re not seriously thinking of going with them?”
But apparently he was, because the trio outside were making their way toward his pickup. The one toting a shotgun looked eager to check it out. He went ahead while his brother, with noticeable impatience, ushered their sister around the icier patches in the yard.
“As I was saying, firewood is stacked on the outside of that wall.” He raised his chin in the direction of the wall that held the bookshelves. Patting his coat pockets, he located his gloves and pulled them on. He dropped his cap and scarf into the pillowcase, gathered the top of it in his fist, and tossed it over his shoulder like a Santa sack. “I won’t be long.”
She planted herself between him and the door. “Are you crazy? They look dangerous.”
“They are.”
“Then—”
“I’ll be okay.”
