Jeremy gave his plate a confused look. “Um . . .”

“It’s venison,” Bea said. “Deer meat.”

“Oh.” He picked the burger up and peered at it. “Oh.”

“Something wrong?” Dad asked.

“No. I’ve just never had . . . that before. Is it . . . uh, did you . . . ?”

“Kill it? Yes. Last fall.”

Bea eyed Jeremy thoughtfully. She’d grown up eating venison, elk, and even bison on occasion. Black bear once, too, come to think of it. She’d never given it a second thought. But she had no idea what Jeremy’s stance on hunting was. Or whether he even had a stance. It had never come up in Santa Clara.

Maybe she’d taken for granted that not everyone in the country had as close a connection to the food on their table as the people of Moose Creek. People who watched the potato fields mature over the summer. Smelled the wheat when it was harvested every September. Dragged the 175-pound carcass of a mule deer two miles to where their truck was waiting. Exchanged trout from the Madison River for honey from Miss Arlee’s bees.

“What do you think?” She tried to sound nonchalant. “Do you like it?”

Jeremy took another tentative bite. Dad pretended to be indifferent and absorbed in his own burger, but Bea could tell he had one eye on Jeremy as well, interested in his response. As if Jeremy’s feelings about wild game were awfully important to him.

“It’s different.” Jeremy winked at her. “Just like you.”

Her cheeks grew warm. It seemed like something she should smack him on the arm for, but the way he said it made her feel like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

“Don’t just sit there gawking at each other,” Dad barked. “Eat up.”

TWENTY-TWO

Mitch strode into the kitchen Sunday morning, toolbox in hand, determined to win his battle with the ice machine once and for all. He stopped short at the sight of Bea sitting at the table, staring at a can of 7UP.

“What are you doing here?”

She’d said she was going to walk to church with Jeremy, hadn’t she? She’d even tried to convince him to go along.

Her face was pale. “I’m not feeling well. Decided to stay home.”

“Oh.” He set the box on the table with a metallic thunk. “You’re sick, and he just left you here alone?”

“I’m not sick.” Bea kept her eyes on the can. There was an edge in her voice. “And I’m not alone.”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “Seems like he’s always off gallivanting around without you, that’s all.”

“He has a name, Dad. And when he’s gone, it’s for work. He also doesn’t like missing church. His faith is important to him.”

Mitch tilted his head at the way she said the words. “It’s not to you?”