“If he’d’a thunk y’all was a threat to him, he’d’a worked his weasel-magic on y’all, too,” she said, darkly. “Then y’all woulda been givin’ him good Lord only knows what.”

“Or thet,” he agreed. “But I reckon it’s a good thang he reckoned me no-account, jest th’ pair’a hands what made stuff, ’cause he left me alone. I jest wanted ter be shuck of both of ’em, so I did ’bout a week an’ a half of polishin’ in three days, barely slept a wink a-doin’ it, an’ they loaded the thang up in Cooper’s wagon and took it an’ thesselves back t’Ducktown yesterday. It’d been wuss if he’d been a-hangin’ round m’shop like Cooper did, but he went off a-wanderin’ somewhere fer most of the day, all three days.”

“He reckoned y’all no-account, ’cause he don’t know ’bout y’all courtin’ me!” she blurted, and then told him, first to his astonishment, then to his anger, about McDaran’s persistent lingering about Aunt Jinny’s place and her going into hiding. She didn’t tell him where she had gone. So far as she knew, he still didn’t know about the Cherokee up in the Holler—and with McDaran around, working his wiles on folks, the fewer as knew, the better, she reckoned.

“Aunt Jinny made sure I was all right,” she merely said. “I jest didn’ hev no paper nor pencil, so I used them cornhusks an’ threads instead.”

“Thet was slick thinkin’, Anna May,” he said with admiration, and sighed. “I’d’a liked t’hev got away from Cooper an’ at least sent y’all more than ‘cain’t talk,’ with him hoverin’ over me—but since I know thet was McDaran’s doin’, reckon I’ll fergive him. Thet’s why I didn’ send y’all more messages—he was at m’elbow from th’ dawn till bed. But thet’s the fust good thang thet come of this. He paid me. Paid me right there on th’ spot afore he loaded the statchoo inter his cart.”

“An’ the second thang?” she prompted.

“Th’ second thang was this!” There was a big lumpy roll of canvas on his now-clean workbench, next to something bulky and covered with what looked like an old tablecloth, and he took the end and unrolled it with a flourish—and revealed that it wasn’t a roll of canvas, it was a roll of tools, each in its own little pocket. Carving tools, exactly the sort of thing he had described himself as coveting, from tiny little things for carving pieces like knife-handles and cameos, to ones like those he’d already been using, plus a pair of mallets.

She stared at them in wonder—and concern. Because weren’t these things supposed to be worth a fortune? She was about to ask where he’d gotten them, when he told her, and her blood froze.

“’Twas Miz Jolene!” he enthused. “Right arter Cooper an’ McDaran rode off, she jest—turned up. Said she’d seed th’ angel grave marker an’ reckoned I deserved better tools than ole Cavenel was a-given me, an’ jest handed these over! I arst her how I could repay her, an’ she jest smiled.”