The first thing Lydia Quinn saw when Sheriff Horace Dutton hauled her and her brothers up Blackpine Mountain was not the cabin, not the pines bowing under the first November snow, and not even the enormous man standing on the porch with an axe in his hand.
It was the grave.
A narrow mound of dark earth beside the woodpile.
A crooked pine cross.
And tied to that cross was a strip of faded blue ribbon, frozen stiff in the cold wind.
Lydia stopped walking.
Her little brother, Benji, nearly stumbled into her.
The sheriff sighed impatiently.
“Keep moving,” he said.
But none of the children moved.
The grave looked too fresh.
The dirt had not settled.
Snow clung to the edges, but the center was still dark and damp.
Benji let go of Lydia’s hand.
Slowly, he stepped toward it.
The mountain man on the porch lowered his axe.
He was enormous.
Broad shoulders.
Dark beard streaked with gray.
A heavy wool coat.
His hands looked strong enough to split trees in half.
But when he saw the little boy reaching toward the blue ribbon, something changed in his face.
“Benji,” Lydia whispered.
Her brother touched the ribbon.
The wind stirred it.
The boy’s eyes widened.
“My mama had one just like this.”
Silence fell over the mountain.
The sheriff shifted uncomfortably.
The mountain man did not move.
Then Benji asked the question nobody wanted to hear.
“Who is buried here?”
The giant of a man swallowed hard.
Nobody answered.
The sheriff cleared his throat.