“I guess not. You got a crowd outside,” Noah offered.

“It’s Saturday,” Taylor said. “They always come around on Saturday. Used to be a lot more would show up, but most people go over to Hiawassee or up to Hayesville, unless they just need a couple of things.”

“I forgot what day it was,” Noah admitted.

“I suspect that’s the way it is with a traveling man,” Taylor said. “You walk far enough, you walk out of where one day ends and another one takes up, I’d guess.”

“There’s some truth to that,” Noah replied.

“Whitlow said you did some handyman work, too. You want to pick up a few days’ work while you’re around, you let me know,” Taylor said. “I got to get the store painted, and nobody around here seems interested—not even enough to help pay off their accounts. I suspect they don’t want everybody else seeing them swap a plow handle for a paintbrush. I’d do it myself, but it’d take me all summer, having to stop every few minutes.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll keep it in mind,” Noah said. He thought he would enjoy being around Taylor Bowers and felt an urge to say more about the offer, but did not. The woman named Eleanor approached the counter carrying a roll of gauze bandaging and two bottles, one of a woman’s cologne and the other of iodine.

“You find everything all right, Eleanor?” Taylor asked.

“I did,” Eleanor said.

“Want some candy this time?”

Eleanor paused before answering, made a glance to Noah, then said, “Yes.”

“Hershey?”

“That’ll be fine.”

Taylor turned to the shelf behind him, took the candy from its box, turned back. “All right, one Hershey. Want me to put everything on the books?”

“Yes,” she said, “but I can wait my turn.” She spoke in a calm, even voice, soft-edged, but having force in the core of it.

Taylor smiled. “We just talking fishing,” he said. He tilted his head toward Noah. “This man fishes for a living. Goes place to place. He’s just passing through, like tinkers used to do.”

Eleanor looked at Noah without expression. Her face, like her body, was slender. Her eyes were green, the green of a colored stone or of a jewel in a brooch. Her hair, a reddish brown, was in a bun that rested on the back of her neck. She was in her mid-thirties, Noah thought. Younger, maybe. Older, maybe. There was something unsettling about her gaze. Without reason, Noah thought of his mother, and it surprised him. The eyes, he guessed. Something about the eyes. Not the color, but something.

“His name’s Noah Locke,” Taylor continued. He looked at Noah. “I got it right, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Noah said uncomfortably.

“Well, Noah, this is Eleanor Cunningham,” Taylor said. “She’s got a place up the road a piece, sort of in the horseshoe of the river.”

“Ma’am,” Noah said, offering a nod. He remembered the smooth stride of the woman, going from her house to the barn.