Eleanor walked toward him. “It’s just me, Whitlow,” she said. She saw Whitlow shift his body toward her. “I didn’t know you were down here.”

Whitlow climbed over the tailgate of the truck to the ground. He said, “You up late.”

“I know,” Eleanor replied. “I thought you left with everybody else.”

“I did,” he told her, “but I decided to come on back here in case the boy showed up somewhere nearby. Thought maybe my dogs might catch the smell of him. Thought that’s what they’d done when you come up.”

“Can you get any sleep out here?”

Whitlow nodded. “I got me a quilt I keep in the truck. Use it sometimes if I’m out hunting at night. It’s good enough.”

“You think he’s all right, Whitlow?”

For a moment, Whitlow did not answer. He ducked his head and shifted his weight on the ground. Then he said softly, “I’m worried about it. We had a lot of people out looking—people that know the places around here pretty good—and it bothers me not to find nothing.”

“You found his tracks down by the creek.”

“Lost them, too,” Whitlow said. “Maybe they was a few days old. Hard to tell.”

“Well, I pray he’s just lost, and he’s all right,” Eleanor said. “If anything’s happened to him, I don’t know what Ada and Howard will do.”

“It’ll leave its mark, I know that,” Whitlow whispered. He looked away.

A rush of regret flooded Eleanor. She had forgotten momentarily about Whitlow’s son being killed in the war. “I know you do,” she said gently. Then: “You better try and get some sleep. I’ll have some breakfast for you in the morning.”

“That’s all right,” he said.

“I won’t take no for an answer,” she said.

“I appreciate it,” he replied.

“You need anything now?”

He shook his head. Then he said, “You had any takers on your place?”

“No,” she answered.

“I was just wondering,” he said.

“You know anybody looking for a place?” she asked.

He shifted his feet awkwardly, pulled at his shirtsleeve with his hand, looked away. “Don’t think so,” he told her.

She stepped toward him. “Did Boyd ever talk to you about wanting to sell it?”

He started to shake his head, then stopped. “He mentioned it once or twice.”

“There was a man who asked about it, but I never thought Boyd would sell it,” she said.

“Uh-huh,” Whitlow mumbled. He shifted his feet again.

“I better get some sleep, too,” she said.

“Uh-huh, me too,” he said.

“See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” he said.

She turned and walked back toward the house and the regret of her comment stayed with her. Whitlow Mayfield was an odd man, she thought. A happy-seeming person, ready with a smile and a loud story, even after the death of his wife and his son, David. Liked by the people of the valley. Still, she knew the death of his son haunted him. She had heard from others how he had disappeared after the war notice about his son missing in action and then the follow-up about his death. Had gone off into the woods for days. And then he had returned, wearing his smile. Had talked of his pride in his son, offering up his life as he had, saying he had accepted it because he knew his son and his wife were in heaven together, and that was enough for him. Son and mother resting in paradise.