Hoke Moore had been right, he thought. It was a good place.

And then the laughter ceased suddenly, so suddenly it caused Taylor Bowers to look toward the door. A woman wearing a simple blue cotton dress with a faded pattern of small roses entered the store, paused, took in a breath, then crossed to the men.

“Eleanor,” Taylor said.

She nodded, said, “Taylor.” Then she glanced at Whitlow, said “Whitlow.”

Whitlow blinked once, slowly. He said, “Morning, Eleanor.”

She did not look at Noah; still Noah recognized her as the woman he had seen the day before at the farmhouse.

“Anything I can get for you?” Taylor asked politely.

“I think I know where everything is,” the woman said. She glanced at Noah, walked past him.

“Well, it’s time I got on home,” Whitlow said. He smiled at Noah, then turned to Taylor. “Don’t go raising prices on our friend, here. Don’t want him to go away thinking bad about us. He was a soldier against Hitler.” A sad smile appeared again among the age ridges of his face and he added, “Like my boy was.” He narrowed his gaze on Noah, said, “Bears a resemblance to him, don’t you think?”

“He does at that,” Taylor agreed.

“Like I said, don’t go cheating him,” Whitlow said.

“You the only one I cheat, Cousin,” Taylor replied. “You know that.”

The sad smile stayed on Whitlow. His eyes blinked rapidly. He mumbled, “Uh-huh, what I thought.” Then, to Noah: “Sure hope you stick around long enough for the fishing. And don’t go picking a fuss with Taylor. He used to be a boxer. There’s many a good man from around here who’s missing a tooth or two from when he was younger. When they make me the sheriff, I’m gonna make him my chief deputy.”

“I’ll remember that,” Noah said.

Whitlow bobbed his head, glanced again toward the woman named Eleanor, then left the store.

“You really make a living fishing?” Taylor asked in a voice that held as much amusement as curiosity.

“Depends on what you’d call a living, I guess,” Noah answered. “I eat a lot of fish.”

Taylor laughed. “What can I get for you?” he asked.

“Coffee,” Noah told him. “And a soap bar, I guess.”

“That it?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s easy enough,” Taylor said. He moved again behind the counter, took a bag of coffee from a shelf and a bar of soap from the counter. The soap, he explained, was homemade by an elderly woman who lived alone in the hills. All she made was herb-scented, but he only had rosemary. “It’s better than any factory-made you’ll find.” He sniffed the soap and handed it to Noah, who also sniffed it.

“Smells good,” Noah said.

“It’ll cut down on the fish smell,” Taylor said behind a grin. “Only thing I never liked about fishing—the smell it left if you caught any.” He cocked his head, added, “I used to fish a lot when I was a boy, but I can’t get away from here long enough to do nothing these days.”