Part 3
Owen got up before the dogs and checked the enclosure in daylight. One loose board needed another fastening; the rest had held. He took them out on leads, filled the water, and stood for a moment looking down the track.
The crates were still in the pickup. If he could not provide a safe place here, he would have to find one elsewhere, whatever the trouble or expense. He looked back at the cabin and began carrying breakfast bowls inside.
He set them just beyond the door and stood aside. Boone studied the road, then followed the food into the house. Fern waited until his nails clicked on the floor before taking the same route.
Tucker found a glove Owen had dropped beside the step. He picked it up, trotted past both bowls, and vanished under the table with his breakfast still untouched. Owen followed the three trails of mud inside.
He left the door a little open while they ate.
By the fourth morning, that practice had ended. Tucker had discovered how many objects could be brought through a doorway, and Owen found himself carrying a shovel outside with something that had once been part of a bird’s nest. When he returned for a cleaning cloth, Tucker stole that too.
The days filled with small repairs. Owen cut rotten wood away from the rear window, bought glass in Alder Creek, and kept the opening covered while he fitted it. He braced the damaged roof before touching the softened members beneath it.
He could manage only the immediate dangers at first. Broken glass, nails in the yard, a step that tipped when he put weight on it. The rear room stayed closed, and the shed could wait behind its vines.
Water required trips into town every other day. Owen kept the drinking supply separate and used a washcloth on himself when the containers ran low. He did not mind dirty sleeves, but he found himself checking Fern’s bowl before he checked his own coffee water.
The dogs learned the tools before they learned much about him. Boone stopped flinching at the hammer. Fern stayed in sight when a board fell, although her legs still gathered under her, ready to run.
Tucker required a canvas pouch nailed high on the wall. Owen put his gloves and tape in it; the dog sat below, considering the new arrangement with his head tipped sideways. Nothing about Tucker suggested he regarded the matter as settled.
On the seventh morning, Owen took Boone down the southern boundary. He wanted to see whether the lower trail could serve the shed; Fern and Tucker waited in the shaded enclosure. He had almost finished sawing through a fallen limb when an engine sounded below him.
A green pickup stopped short of the branch. Its passenger door was cream, and its driver climbed out holding a steel thermos. The man was broad, nearly bald, and dressed in patched overalls beneath a waxed jacket.
“Samuel’s grandson?”
“Owen Hart.”
“Glen Voss. My place is below you.”
Owen kept hold of Boone. Glen saw the dog take a step forward and stopped where he was, turning slightly toward the truck. He waited until Boone’s shoulders loosened before looking at the branch.
“You’ll need more room on the outside of that turn,” he said. “Anything loaded will cut across it.”
“I was getting to that.”
Glen unscrewed his thermos. Owen watched him pour coffee into the lid with the care of a man unwilling to waste any on a stranger’s gravel.
“I knew your grandfather,” Glen said. “He borrowed my post driver often enough that I used to come up here when I needed it.”
Owen glanced uphill. “The fence needs work.”
“So does that porch corner.”
“You been looking around?”
“From my field. You can see the lean when the light’s on it.”
Owen set the saw down. Glen had not stepped any closer or asked to inspect the cabin, which made it harder to justify the answer Owen was preparing.
“I’ll get it done,” he said.
Glen drank the coffee. Then he opened the tailgate and took out a post driver, a coil of wire, and a pry bar. He laid them on the cleared side of the branch.
“I didn’t ask you to bring those.”
“No. I was coming to see who’d moved in.”
Owen looked from the tools to Glen. “I’m not taking—”
“Then don’t.” Glen screwed the lid back on. “Your grandfather used to refuse help until something broke. An axle, once. Leave them there if you want; I’ve got feeding to finish.”
He backed the truck away. Boone watched it disappear, then lowered his nose to the wire. Owen spent another minute examining the turn before picking up the tools and carrying them uphill.
Glen returned the next morning with salvaged lumber, used roofing sheets, and plumbing fittings in a crate. He pointed out the old nail holes in the metal before Owen could mistake any of it for something expensive.
“I can pay for usable material.”
“Tell me what’s usable when we’ve unloaded it. I’ll take coffee when you’ve got the water running.”
Owen stayed beside the gate. Glen slid a roofing sheet toward himself, found its far edge awkward, and stopped with both hands occupied. For a few seconds neither moved.
Then Owen took the other end.
They worked without discussing the tools again. Glen knew where the old drainage ditch ran and which gray boards still had sound wood beneath the surface. He could stay until noon; after that his own stock needed him, a limit Owen found easier to accept than an open offer.
The water problem lay in a buried connection behind the kitchen. They dug it out, replaced the cracked coupling, and spent the rest of the morning coaxing the system back into use. Brown water coughed from the spout before the stream cleared.
Owen filled a sample container. He would have it tested before using the well for drinking. Glen washed the mud from his fingers in a separate basin and watched the spout with unmistakable satisfaction.
“You can stop hauling quite so much now,” he said.
“When the test comes back.”
“All right. But I’m still expecting coffee.”
On days Glen came by the footpath instead of driving, his boots brought leaf fragments to the porch. The narrow path cut through the southern woods to his farm, avoiding the road’s long bend. Owen cleared its entrance while Glen explained where it joined his lower yard.
Tucker’s interest in Glen began with the treats in his coat pocket. On the first visit he stretched his neck as far as it would reach without moving his feet. By the third, he was waiting at the gate before Owen could hear the truck. When Glen left, Tucker ran along the inside fence until the green pickup disappeared.
“Go find Glen,” Owen said one afternoon, pointing across the enclosure.
Tucker shot toward the old man’s coat pocket, and Glen fumbled for a treat with a roofing screw still between his fingers. Owen laughed, and they repeated the exercise whenever Glen was working elsewhere in the yard. On walks down the footpath to return borrowed tools, Owen took all three dogs; Tucker soon learned which door at Glen’s house opened onto the kitchen and the tin of treats.
After the water test came back clear, Owen filled the kettle from the pump. Glen was outside putting his tools away, ready to leave. Owen got the second chair out from under a stack of boards and carried it onto the porch.
“Coffee’s on,” he called.
Glen looked at the chair, then set the pry bar down again.
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