Chapter 18: What the Town Says

By nine the next morning, everyone in Pinedale knew.

I knew because I walked into Garner's store for oats and every woman at the counter stopped talking.

There were four of them, church ladies in good coats, and they looked at me and then at each other.

I wore Wayne's canvas coat, the one he had put around me on my birthday.

It hung to my knees. I had picked it up off the hook on purpose.

"Morning," I said.

Nobody said it back.

One of them, a woman I had known since I was seven, pulled her purse closer to her side.

"I hear you're awfully close to your stepfather these days," she said.

Garner put down the receipt book.

"Ma'am," he said. "You're blocking my register."

The door opened behind me and Wayne came in.

He had his hat on and his sleeves rolled.

He walked straight to my side and put his hand flat on the small of my back.

He didn't hide it. He didn't look at the floor.

"Ladies," he said. "Garner."

The women stared.

"Whatever you've heard, you've heard it from Lyle Kenyon," Wayne said evenly. "Ask yourself how a man comes to own photographs of my barn."

Nobody answered that either.

He looked at me. "Oats?"

"Four sacks," I said.

He carried them out over his shoulder, and I followed him through the whole silent store with my head up.

Outside, my knees nearly gave.

"I thought you'd hide," I said.

"I've hidden for three weeks." He loaded the last sack. "I'm done."

My phone rang as I climbed into the truck.

It was the bank officer.

"Miss Gentry," he said. "I'm calling as a courtesy. The lender of record has invoked the insecurity clause on the equipment note."

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