Chapter 5 - The Salt and the Iron
By three in the morning, the frost had crept through the gaps in the oak slabs, turning the dust on the salt table into tiny, glittery needles that caught the grey light of the moon.
My toes had lost all feeling two hours ago. My ears burned with that thin, dry ache that comes before the skin turns white.
The house across the yard was dark, except for a single yellow light in the kitchen where Darla kept the stove banked with green oak to keep the water tank from freezing.
A key turned in the smokehouse padlock.
The latch didn't drop with a bang this time. It was lifted slowly, the iron rasped against the staple as if someone were trying to keep the sound from traveling up to the second-floor windows.
The door swung open four inches.
It was Clara. She was wearing her father’s old hunting coat, the sleeves rolled up twice to show her red, thin wrists. She carried a tin mug of warm tea that smelled of dried mint and clover.
"Drink this," she whispered, thrusting the mug through the gap.
I took it. The iron was so hot against my numb palms that it felt like ice at first.
"Why are you helping me, Clara?"
She looked back over her shoulder toward the house. The frost was thick on her eyelashes, making her blink rapidly like a bird caught in a net.
"Colton’s awake," she said. "He’s sitting by the kitchen stove with his head bandaged up. He’s got his shotgun across his knees."
"Is he coming out here?"
"No," she whispered. "He’s waiting for morning. He told Harlon he’s going to drive you down to your father’s farm at daylight and make you tell your father yourself that you’re a barren, crazy bitch who isn't worth the salt she eats."
"I'm not barren," I said.
"Doesn't matter what you are," Clara said, her voice dropping so low I had to lean my head against the oak slab to hear her. "If he says it first, people believe him. That's how it works here. That's how it worked with Uncle Thomas's wife before she went into the river."
I set the tin mug down on the salt table.
"Where is the title to the truck, Clara?"
She blinked at me. "The Ford?"
"Harlon keeps the papers in the tin box behind the clock in the parlor," I said. "I saw him put the tax receipt there on Tuesday."
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"You can't take the Ford," she said, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. "Harlon will hunt you down to the county line. He’s got two brothers in the sheriff's department."
"I'm not taking the Ford," I said. "I'm taking my father's bottomland back."
