“Yes, I do,” he answered. “It’s cool at night.”

“Sometimes when it’s too hot to sleep, I get up and go to the porch and sit in the swing,” she said. “I think if it had a screen on it, I’d do the same thing you’re doing. I’d put a cot out there and let the bugs sing me to sleep.” She moved from the room to the cot on the porch, sat on it as though testing the softness of it, and then she turned her body to lie across it, her head resting on the pillow, facing the lake. “Yes,” she said softly. “I like this.”

Noah sat at the table numbly watching her through the door of the shack. He did not know if he should say something to her, or if he should leave her alone. Wondered what Taylor would say, what Taylor would do. Wondered if Taylor would be as helpless. Maybe if he did nothing more than sit near her, it would be enough, he reasoned, and he left the table and went to the porch, to the rocker, and sat and waited for her to say something. In the moon’s light—a faint lemon color—he could not see her eyes, did not know what words could be in them. Waited. Listened to her breathing, as even and as soft as the purring sound of a cat. Waited. Minutes passed. Long minutes. Silent minutes. And then she pushed up from the cot, stood, looked at him, smiled nervously.

“I’m glad I know you, Noah Locke,” she whispered. “I’m glad you came to the valley.”

He swallowed. He had no words to offer.

“I know you’re ready to leave,” she added. “I think I’m going to miss you not being here.”

She stepped to him, reached to touch his face with her fingers, let her fingers linger on his skin for a moment, turned and left the porch. He watched her disappear into the darkness and then he slowly rocked forward out of the chair and went to the cot and lay down in the place where she had been. The warmth of her body was still on the blanket—or so it seemed to be—and a faint scent of her cologne lingered in the pillow. He slept a pleasing, restful sleep, one that did not have the dreams he expected to have—dreams of Matthew.

TWENTY-THREE

Lamar Gathers knew the day would be one of many moods. He knew it because he knew the people of the Valley of Light better than anyone—an outsider who had been among them long enough to be considered an acceptable insider.

He knew it because he was a teacher and teachers had the advantage of vision through the eyes of students who saw things as they were, not as they were covered up by their parents, twisting the truth for the sake of looking good.

He knew it because teachers—good teachers—were always learning.

He was a good teacher.

He knew it also because he had seen the moods of the valley close-up and had survived them.