"None at all," Wilkie quickly said, then walked toward the office, stepping through a mud hole he seemed not to notice until his right pant cuff got soaked.

Sheriff McDowell pulled the oilcloth over Buchanan's head and torso, the legs alone visible. Several loggers had wandered over to look into the wagon. They stared at Buchanan's corpse impassively.

"Put his body on the train," McDowell told the loggers. "I'm going to have an autopsy done."

As the men lifted the corpse out of the wagon, the sheriff looked over at Galloway, who stood amid the hounds.

"You got anything to add?"

"It was an accident," Galloway said.

"How do you know that?" McDowell asked.

Galloway nodded at Pemberton, baring a grin toothless but for a few nubs of brown and yellow.

"He ain't a good enough shot to do it on purpose."

McDowell turned to Vaughn, who had not moved from the buckboard. The youth looked frightened.

"What about you, Joel?"

"No sir," Vaughn said, looking at the floorboard when he spoke. "I stayed with the horses and wagon."

"Anything else, Sheriff?" Pemberton asked.

McDowell did not acknowledge the comment, but in a few moments he got in his car and left. Galloway herded the dogs back into the wagon bed. He took the reins from Vaughn and followed the police car's dusty wake out of the camp. Doctor Cheney lingered a few more moments, then walked toward his house. As Pemberton turned to join Wilkie on the porch, he saw the photographer's truck had left as well.

Wilkie sat in a ladderback chair. He dabbed his forehead with a blue silk handkerchief that was usually no more than an ornament. Pemberton joined Wilkie on the porch, pulling up a chair in front of his partner.

"It must give you pause to see someone three decades younger die so suddenly," Pemberton said. "As a matter of fact, I'd think it would persuade you to sell your third interest and go back to Boston, live out what time you have left in comfort instead of in these inhospitable mountains."

Pemberton shifted the chair closer, their knees touching now. Pemberton could smell the shaving cream mailed from Boston each month, see a small razor nick just below Wilkie's left ear lobe.

"Perhaps you were already thinking something similar when the politicians were courting you Thursday morning."

Wilkie looked not at Pemberton but at the silk handkerchief in his lap. The old man's gnarly fingers rubbed the cloth as if fascinated with its texture. It was an oddly childlike gesture, and Pemberton wondered if Wilkie was succumbing to dotage at that very moment.

"Mrs. Pemberton and I will pay half of what the park service offered for your share."

"Half?" Wilkie said, the proposal's unjustness rousing him to meet Pemberton's eyes.

"It's more than enough to live out your remaining years in comfort. Think of it as a kind of eminent domain."

"But half," Wilkie said, his voice teetering between dismay and anger.

The old man looked past Pemberton at a cur come down from one of the stringhouses. The dog hunched where the wagon had been, its long tongue licking dust moistened by Buchanan's blood. Another cur came, sniffed the ground and began licking as well.

"All right," Wilkie said bitterly.

"We'll draw the papers up this evening," Pemberton said. "Doctor Cheney is a notary and Campbell can be a witness. I'll have Campbell take the papers to Lawyer Covington tonight. We can have the complete transaction done at Covington's office tomorrow. And a handshake, of course. We are, after all gentlemen, even here in this forsaken landscape."

Pemberton offered his hand. Wilkie raised his also, but very slowly, as if lifting some invisible weight. The old man's palm was moist, and he made no effort to match Pemberton's confident grip.

Pemberton left Wilkie on the porch. He walked across the yard to the house and went inside. He found Serena looking out the back room's window at the stumps and slash that covered a quarter-mile before rising upwards to the ridge crest. Her boots dried in the corner on a piece of newspaper. The gray cotton stockings she wore were pulled off as well. In the muted light, Serena's feet and ankles shown pale as alabaster.

Pemberton came and stood behind her, placed his arms around her waist, his head leaned close to hers. Serena did not turn but eased back into him. He felt the curve of her hips against his groin, and desire seemed to fill not only his body but the whole room. The air felt charged with some small but discernable electrical current. What light slanted through the window gave the room a honeyed tinge.

"So it's done," Serena said, her right hand taking his and pressing it to her thigh.

"Yes."

"And the sheriff?"

"Suspicious, but he has no proof or witness to show it wasn't an accident."

"And our senior partner's agreed to sell his share?"

Pemberton nodded.

"What did you learn about Buchanan's siblings?"

"One's a student, the other a professor."

"Good news all around," Serena said, staring out the window. "You'll have to spend more time at the saw mill, at least at first, but we'll promote a foreman and hire a few new men. From what I've heard, it's the foremen who have run the day-to-day operation, even when Wilkie and Buchanan were there. Campbell can help eventually, but first he needs to walk the Jackson County land, Townsend's tract as well."

Serena's hand slid down a few inches, her fingers molding his to the curve of her thigh. Serena's gold band settled over Pemberton's. The current he'd felt since entering the room intensified, as if the touching gold provided a conduit for the energy to flow directly through Serena into him. Part of Pemberton ached to move his hand so he could lead her to the bed, but another part did not want to move, even slightly, lest the touching bands separated and the current became more diffuse. Serena seemed to feel the same energy, because her hand remained where it was. She shifted slightly, pressed her body deeper into his.

"You didn't shoot him in the back, did you?"

"No," Pemberton said.

"I knew you wouldn't. But concerns like that don't matter. We're beyond them, Pemberton."

"He's dead," Pemberton replied. "That's all that matters. It's over and done with and we've got all we wanted."

"At least for today," Serena said. "A start, a true beginning."

Pemberton bowed his head, smelled the French cologne he'd ordered at Christmas, which Serena wore only after her evening bath and only at his behest. He let its smell, the touch of his lips against her neck, overwhelm everything else.

Serena lifted her hand from Pemberton's and stepped out of his embrace. She began to undress, letting her clothes fall to the floor. When Serena was completely naked, she turned and pressed her body full against his. The pants he wore were still damp from helping carry Buchanan to the wagon, and when Serena stepped back Pemberton saw a thin smear of red on her lower stomach. Serena saw it as well but did not go to the bathroom for a washcloth.

Pemberton sat on the bed and took off his boots and clothes. He reached to open the lamp table's drawer for a condom, but Serena grasped his wrist, settled his hand firm against her hip.

"It's time to make our heir," Serena said.