Grant gave the boy a tip of the top hat. “Farewell, then, young man.”
“Like to get yer privates shot off,” the boy said, brightening.
Grant paled.
Dearg emerged from behind the trees, the Winchester slung under one arm.
Vanderbilt stepped forward. “Mr. Tate, some of my guests expressed a desire to see more of the traditional culture around Biltmore. Please be assured, you’re under no obligation at all to show us your place. If you’d rather we left . . .”
Grant, having left his horse standing beside Cabot’s, strode toward the screen of pines to the right of the cabin.
“Grant.” Vanderbilt’s voice carried a sharp reprimand. “We’ve not been invited to walk Mr. Tate’s property.”
Dearg was stepping forward, raising his rifle, when Kerry laid a hand on his back. He paused. Seemed to consider. His gaze shifted to Vanderbilt. The gun dropped back to his side.
“Mr. Tate,” Vanderbilt said. “Anything you show us or not is your choice. With”—a look passed between Dearg and him—“no repercussions.”
Which Dearg must have understood referred to something specific. Because to Kerry’s utter surprise, he turned on the heel of one mud-slathered boot. “What the hell. Don’t matter now what you people see.” He stomped away down the path. Then barked over his shoulder, “Follow me.”
“I’m unaccustomed to being ordered about,” Grant quipped to the women. “Particularly not by someone who couldn’t spell unaccustomed.”
Stiff with fury, Kerry slipped into the path behind them. Only John Cabot, scribbling notes as he walked last in the line, heard the rustle of leaves behind that made him turn. Startled, he touched the brim of his hat.
Their eyes held.
“Ah,” Grant pronounced as the group reached the clearing. “Moonshine. Also known as White Lightning. Income the government has long wanted to tax.”
Releasing a valve at the end of one spiraled metal tube, Dearg held a tin cup underneath a dripping clear liquid. “No photographs here,” he ordered as Cabot raised the Kodak.
Dearg held the cup up for Grant—like a dare.
Grant swiveled to address the others. “There is a reason, after all, that the government wishes to regulate the making of liquor in rusted metal pipes and pots. It can blind one, I’ve read.”
He spoke as if Dearg Tate were deaf. Or too dense to make out the words. Kerry’s chest burned.
Grant lifted the cup toward his mouth but then swept it out in a kind of toast. “No, thank you, my good man.”
He’d already half turned back to the others as he thrust the tin cup back at Dearg. Spotting Kerry there at the back of the group, he opened his mouth in surprise. “Ah,” Grant said. “A vision of loveliness here in the wilds.”
Recoiling, Kerry said nothing.
John Cabot was looking from Grant to Kerry and back.
A few feet away, Lilli Barthélemy, the friend of the niece, was trying to slip past the still, her head turned away.
But Dearg thrust the cup in front of her, making her stop.
The niece’s friend froze. Fixed a look on Dearg.
“I believe I’d like to taste it,” Lilli Barthélemy announced, her voice cold. “This homegrown brew of which I’ve heard so much.”
She snatched the cup from him and tipped it up to her mouth.
“C’est bon,” she said, licking her lips, voice husky. “It is . . . very strong.” She paused. Looked up into Dearg Tate’s face, the air taut with those words. Her fingers slid away from the cup. “Merci,” she whispered.
Kerry’s breath felt caught in her chest. Whatever she’d just witnessed meant something. Though just what, she’d no idea.
The group made its way back up the path to their horses. Numb, Kerry followed behind. That Dearg would allow these complete strangers to pound on his door, tromp on his land, even see his still—it made no sense at all.
Madison Grant walked beside Dearg. Chummily. As if they’d met before. Grant lifted his face to say something to Dearg that Kerry could not hear.
The others mounted and trotted ahead, while John Cabot lagged back with Vanderbilt. Kerry could feel Cabot’s eyes on her. Could feel he was wanting to speak.
Leaning down from his saddle, Vanderbilt held out his hand to Dearg. “Do please forgive us for disturbing your privacy. I am well aware the land is still yours through the end of the year. I want you to know I respect that. I’m glad, Mr. Tate, that we were able at last to come to an agreement.”
Jaw dropping open, Kerry stared at Dearg.
John Cabot was nudging his horse close to her. Leaning down as if to speak quietly.
But, fists curled, she was already marching past him toward Dearg.
“You sold?” She could barely make the shape of the words. “So that’s why you didn’t care what Vanderbilt and those people saw—’cause it’s already as good as his. My God, Dearg. You said you and Bratchett and me, we were the last. Said you’d never sell. Not if he offered you millions.”
In one movement, Dearg raised his rifle and fired over their heads, the gun’s report echoing over the trees.
That was his answer, she knew. The total of what he would tell her right now. Like that blast as the bullet left its chamber was the sound of his loss. A bullet shot into the blue sky but falling through the pines to the ground—powerless now. A man who’d soon have a wad of money in hand, exiling himself from his home.
Kerry stood alone outside the cabin as he mounted the porch and slammed the door so hard that chinks of clay fell out of the logs near the frame.
When exactly John Cabot gave up on speaking with her and left, she didn’t know.
The sun beginning to sink behind the mountains, Kerry hugged her arms over her chest. She suddenly felt very cold. And very alone.
Kerry told herself she was playing the fiddle that night to calm the twins, who’d been harried all day by a restive Johnny Mac; cantankerous, ungenerous hens; and Malvolio, who’d brayed for hours as they’d tried to tighten the tanned hides over their banjo gourds. But the truth was that she needed to play for herself.
She’d not picked up a bow for years. Her father had taught her the fiddle when she was hardly old enough to stand. She tuned the strings now with a kind of frantic need to hold her life together by wrapping the betrayal in strains of music.
Long and mournful they came, each song she played. Songs handed down through the decades—centuries, even. Songs of sorrow and longing and loss.
She played on as the twins fell asleep, their hands blistered but both their faces smoothed into peace for the first night since she’d come home. She played as her father lay staring up at the ceiling boards of their cabin as if scenes from his life were flickering there.
Or perhaps, Kerry thought with a stab of pity, he’s seeing its end.
She was finally lifting the fiddle back to its place on the wall when a rustling stopped her. A soft rattle from inside the fiddle’s body.
Turning it over, she shook it. A rectangular paper fell behind the strings, but was blocked by the size of the hole.
Shaking the fiddle and using her fingers like pincers, Kerry plucked the small paper out. Blank on one side. So maybe only a mistake that it had fallen inside.