“I unnerstood it jest fine,” she assured him, acutely aware that her heart was beating just a little faster, and she was feeling just a trifle breathless around him. But not the kind of “breathless” she’d been when she’d been so sick. No, this was a distinctly pleasant sensation. “Whatcher do when y’all ain’t carvin’ headstones?”

“Pa don’t arst me t’do nothin’ thet’ll harm my hands,” he said, as the wagon rolled through a crick bed, and they braced themselves against the sides. “So it’s whatever chores what don’t come with th’ chance of choppin’ ’em off, or sechlike. So, no choppin’ firewood. No usin’ a scythe or a sickle. Thet leaves plenty, though. I c’n still hoe an’ chop weeds with th’ hoe in th’ garden. I c’n drive Rosie on th’ cultivator, or th’ plow, or th’ harvester or the mower.” He laughed. “Pa finds me plenty t’do.”

“Devil finds work fer idle hands,” his father said over his shoulder.

“Plus, like I tol’ y’all when we fust met, I do other carvin’ when I got th’ material. I’m plumb outa pearl shell though, so I cain’t do knife handles, nor gun grips right now.”

“Wonder iffen they’s anybody ’round Ducktown that’d pay fer a fancy cane?” she wondered aloud, having vague recollection of seeing a cane with a dog head at a Christmas party one year—had the mine owner been the proud possessor of the thing?—and being fascinated by it. It had been so realistic that child-her had wanted to pet it. “Y’all could do thet in wood.”

“Say!” he exclaimed. “Reckon yer right! I’ll arst—no, I gotter better ideer. I’ll go ahead an’ make one, an’ put it with Mistuh Clay what runs th’ gen’ral store. I put stuff with ’im all th’ time, an’ we see iffen anybody’ll pay. Yer a smart gel, Anna May Jones!”

She blushed with pleasure, and his grin broadened to see it.

“Reckon a dog head’d be nice,” she offered shyly. “Or mebbe a eagle.”

“Wood carves easy,” he pointed out. “Quicker’n stone. Reckon I might as well do both.”

“But what if this baby’s Ma wants y’all t’make another statchoo fer her parlor?” she continued.

“Iffen it’s a-goin inter th’ parlor, I c’n make it smaller, an’ make it outa marble,” he said. “They’s plenty marble ’round here, jest lyin’ about. I c’n hack th’ rotten bits off a bigger piece an’ hev ’nough good marble t’make a liddle life-sized statchoo ’bout yay so big.” He measured out a length of about a foot with his hands apart. “Thet won’t take near as long as th’ headstone did, an’ marble’s softer an’ easier t’carve an’ polish. An’ it’ll be good money!”

“An’ it’ll fit inna parlor better’n this,” she pointed out.

“Donchew count yore chickens afore they’s hatched, Josh,” his father said, looking over his shoulder.

“Ain’t a-countin’ chickens, Pa,” Josh replied, as his father turned his attention back to the road. “Jest speculatin’ on how to do her, if she’s wanted.” He laughed. “Now, speculatin’ on how ter spend the money, that’d be countin’ chickens.”