“Are we getting close to the Starbucks?” she asked.

“It’s not far. Just keep walkin’ and thinkin’ about it,” he said.

A big bluetick hound bounded out of the brush and fell in behind them. He kept his distance, but when Sawyer looked back, he wagged his tail, so hopefully he wasn’t stalking them for his breakfast.

“I smell coffee,” she said.

“It’s a mirage.”

“A mirage is something you see, like a coffee shop or a Dairy Queen up ahead, but an aroma is something different, and I swear I smell coffee and a woodstove,” she said.

“If you do, let’s hope it’s not on Wallace Redding’s part of the Holler. From what that kid said, I don’t think those folks play well with others.”

“He said his daddy’s pig farm was the last one in Salt Holler, and when we climbed over the fence, we were out of it,” she said.

The hound dog shot out past them and was a blur as he ran ahead. Sawyer cocked his head to one side. “I heard someone whistling. That dog is going home. There’s a house up there, and it’s not far. Maybe they’ll have a phone we can use.”

“Or they’d be willing to share their coffee,” she said.

Neither of them saw the cabin until they were right up on it. The back half was built into a hillside with only the front showing. That part had a wide porch roof made of split logs and held up by four tree trunks that still had the bark attached. The hound lay on the porch beside an old rocker. When he saw them, his tail beat out a welcome on the wooden floor.

The man who stepped out the door with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands wasn’t much over five feet tall and wore bibbed overalls, a red flannel shirt, and worn work boots. The wind blew his wispy white hair in all directions, and his blue eyes had settled into a bed of deep wrinkles.

“State your business. You ain’t supposed to be on my property. Didn’t you read the sign that said trespassers would be shot?” he said gruffly.

“I’ve read a lot of those signs,” Jill said. “Are we still in Salt Holler?”

“Not in Wallace Redding’s part of the holler. You’re at the very end in my part right now,” he said.

“Are you kin to the Gallaghers or the Brennans?” Jill asked.

“Hell, no! If I was, I’d shoot myself in the head with this gun.”

“We were kidnapped, but we escaped, and now we’re trying to get back to Burnt Boot,” Sawyer said.

“That damned feud. I heard it had fired up again over a bunch of pigs that got stolen. You give me your word y’all ain’t no revenuers from the gov’ment?” He eyed them both carefully.

“I promise. We’d sure like to borrow your phone and call for help, sir,” Sawyer said.

“Ain’t got no phone, but from the looks of you both, you could use some breakfast. Me and Otis here, we done ate, but there’s plenty of flapjacks left over, and coffee is hot.”

“We’d appreciate that very much,” Jill said.

“Well, don’t stand out here in the cold. Come on in here and tell me your story. I like a good tale, and there ain’t been nobody to talk to for at least a month. Wallace is supposed to come over next week for a batch of brew, so you can entertain me until then. I’m Tilly, short for Tilman.”

“I’m Sawyer O’Donnell, and this Jill Cleary,” Sawyer said, glad that Tilly had lowered the shotgun and was holding the door open for them.

“So you are Gladys’s new foreman at Fiddle Creek, and you are her niece who’ll wind up with it someday. Now it makes sense why them thievin’, feudin’ families would want to kidnap you. Crazy sons a bitches ain’t got a lick of sense, but they’ve both been after Fiddle Creek for years. Go on over there and wash up a little bit while I put the breakfast on the table for you.” Tilly motioned toward the back side of the cabin, where a pump sat at the end of a makeshift table with a washbasin below it. “Ain’t got no hot water heated up, so you’ll have to make do with cold, but I expect after a night in the woods, it won’t feel too bad. Where’d y’all bed down?”

“In a barn a couple of miles back that way.” Sawyer pointed.

“See anybody?”

“Just a kid that gave us some directions out of there. Said that we could climb up to the road, but we haven’t found a place that wasn’t a muddy mess,” Jill answered.

Tilly set his mouth in a firm line. “You’d be some lucky folks. That place belongs to Wallace’s nephew, and he’s a mean bastard. They ain’t friendly in Salt Holler. Ain’t but a handful of people is allowed across the bridge. Years ago it was a place where outlaws went. I reckon those that live here are still the offspring of those outrunnin’ the law. Me and Otis, we keep our distance from them people.”

“But you sell him moonshine?” Sawyer asked.

“Hell, yeah! Got to sell it to someone, and I damn sure don’t want people comin’ around here. They might bring the gov’ment men with ’em. This way we’re both makin’ some money, and I ain’t got to deal with people. I’m a hermit,” Tilly said.

The coffee was so strong that it could melt the enamel from teeth. The pancakes were rubbery, but the hot, buttered, homemade sugar syrup made them go down right well. Sawyer finished off two stacks before he finally pushed back from the table. “We thank you for your hospitality. Do you have a vehicle that can get us out of this place? We’d be glad to pay you well to take us home to Fiddle Creek.”

He rubbed his freshly shaven chin. “Ain’t got no car, but I do go to town twice a year. It ain’t time yet, but I’m runnin’ low on a few things. It’s a five-mile stretch up there on the road, and I reckon if you’d be willing to pay me in flour, sugar, and coffee, and if we was to get started pretty soon here, old Bessie would get me home by dark. Way these crazy people drive, I don’t like to be out in the wagon after the sun sets.”

“Bessie?” Jill asked.

“That would be my mule that pulls my wagon. Y’all’d have to ride in the back, seein’ as how the seat in the front only ’commodates me.”

“Yes, sir. We’d be obliged, and we’ll stock you up on supplies,” Sawyer said.

“Then I expect we’d best get goin’. Sun is up, and if we get there by noon, I can load up and get back by sundown,” he said. “Days are short this time of year.”

“How do you get out of this holler with a mule and wagon? Do you go back to the bridge?” Jill asked.

Tilly chuckled. “I got my ways. Bessie lives across the road on fifty acres I own over there. That’s where I keep my wagon. That side is pretty flat.”

He pulled a rope and a ladder fell down from the rafters. “Fancy, ain’t it? It was made for one of them houses with a ceilin’, but I got it fixed up so part of it falls down to here and the other part stays up there to the hatch in the roof. Y’all follow me.”

He scrambled up the ladder like an agile little boy. “Y’all comin’, or you goin’ to stand down there and look stupid?”

Jill started up with Sawyer right behind her. Where in the hell they were going once they reached the top was a mystery, but it was definitely the only way out, other than going back to the bridge. With her fanny practically in his face, Sawyer couldn’t control the pictures that flashed through his mind.

Her butt would fit so well in his hands, especially if they were both naked and in his big king-sized bed.

“Okay now, we hit this here button and watch what happens,” Tilly said.

A hatch opened up on the roof, letting in sun and cold air. Jill followed him on up the ladder and through the opening to find that the porch roof was level with the road over to the right. And right there was a swinging bridge about twenty yards long, wide enough for one person at a time.

“Cute, ain’t it?” Tilly said. “Let me get to the other side before you get on it. Don’t know how much weight it would bear. One at a time, and then we’ll hitch up Bessie to the wagon and get on our way.”

Chapter 15

Bessie, the old gray mule, had two speeds: slow and stop. A stick of dynamite could not have put any more giddy-up in her pace, but Sawyer wasn’t complaining. He could be walking all the way into town and dodging Gallaghers and Brennans on the way.