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Authors: Scott Nicholson
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Jewish-Cherokee bloodline. Some claimed it was a good thing that goats and sheep couldn’t take human seed, or there might be some little four-legged Eggerses running around. But Hardy had nothing to say on that subject, either.
“I heard about the ruckus,” Hardy said. “A man’s got an obligation to keep an eye on his neighbor’s property.”
Bill gunned the engine once, as if in defiance of high gas prices compliments of gutless politicians and endless war, and killed the ignition. “That’s more of Littlefield’s talk,” Bill said. “He’s as jumpy as a frog on a hotplate.”
Hardy nodded at Bill’s contrived colloquialism, the kind of backwoods buffoonery he considered folksy wisdom. Thought it made him one of the gang, but instead it only showed the man was trying way too hard. He’d buy Arveleta Perkins’s chow chow at the farmer’s market and pretend like he actually ate the mess, whereas only tourists and college hippies were dumb enough to buy the green mash of pickled onions, tomatillas, radishes, and cucumbers.
“The sheriff’s a good man,” Hardy said, keeping the defensiveness out of his voice. No use disputing Bill, because the baldheaded money-grabber never lost an argument. Like any man, he was wrong about half the time, but he mistook surrender for weakness, whereas any fool knew that sometimes it was better to run like hell and live to fight another day. Then again, Bill owned about five percent of Pickett County and it didn’t look like the bank was foreclosing anytime soon.
“Sheriff out to be enforcing these ‘No trespassing’ signs,” Bill said, the grin staying in place to add, “I’m just joking, but I don’t have to be.”
“Nobody wants any trouble up here.”
“Yeah, I know. We did that dance. The North Carolina Historical Society didn’t find one trace of Kirk’s Raiders, and all the do-gooders at Westridge University didn’t find a damned thing, either. Just some stories that make the rounds every Halloween when folks want to scare their kids into good behavior.”
“Them names had some basis in history.”
“There’s no record that Earley Eggers joined the raiders, but I know you’re little touchy about it.”
“You would be, too, if your family’s reputation was shot to hell.”
“That was a century and a half ago.”
“People bury the past, but some things stick around long after they ought to be forgot.”
Bill opened the Humvee door and rolled out of it. Economic prosperity had spread to his waistline. Standing, the top of his balding head barely reached the door handle, but his belly was as inflated as his tires. He smacked his lips as if chewing sunflower seeds. “I know you were the only heir that fought against selling the family property, but I also noticed you didn’t offer to give up your share after we cut the check.”
Hardy swallowed hard. “Turns out people keep buying up property around here and building big homes, driving up their neighbors’ taxes until they either have to sell out or go bust. I needed the money or I’d have lost my land.”
Bill’s grin widened, throwing wrinkles across his forehead and scrunching his bulbous nose. “Growth happens whether you’re ready or not.”
“Yeah, well, shit happens, too, but you don’t see me diving in headfirst and telling everybody the water’s fine.”
“Titusville’s not a secret anymore. It kept popping up on those national lists the magazines keep, the ‘Top 20 best places to retire,’ ‘50 best outdoor adventure towns,’ and all that. After Westridge upset Duke in basketball, you could make it a reasonable question on a geography test.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say your pictures might have made a difference.”
Pride made the grin shift into a smirk, the eyes growing even darker. Budget Bill swept his arm out to indicate the view of the mountains that rippled soft and blue-gray in the distance, evidence that the Earth was a work in progress,
“I heard about the ruckus,” Hardy said. “A man’s got an obligation to keep an eye on his neighbor’s property.”
Bill gunned the engine once, as if in defiance of high gas prices compliments of gutless politicians and endless war, and killed the ignition. “That’s more of Littlefield’s talk,” Bill said. “He’s as jumpy as a frog on a hotplate.”
Hardy nodded at Bill’s contrived colloquialism, the kind of backwoods buffoonery he considered folksy wisdom. Thought it made him one of the gang, but instead it only showed the man was trying way too hard. He’d buy Arveleta Perkins’s chow chow at the farmer’s market and pretend like he actually ate the mess, whereas only tourists and college hippies were dumb enough to buy the green mash of pickled onions, tomatillas, radishes, and cucumbers.
“The sheriff’s a good man,” Hardy said, keeping the defensiveness out of his voice. No use disputing Bill, because the baldheaded money-grabber never lost an argument. Like any man, he was wrong about half the time, but he mistook surrender for weakness, whereas any fool knew that sometimes it was better to run like hell and live to fight another day. Then again, Bill owned about five percent of Pickett County and it didn’t look like the bank was foreclosing anytime soon.
“Sheriff out to be enforcing these ‘No trespassing’ signs,” Bill said, the grin staying in place to add, “I’m just joking, but I don’t have to be.”
“Nobody wants any trouble up here.”
“Yeah, I know. We did that dance. The North Carolina Historical Society didn’t find one trace of Kirk’s Raiders, and all the do-gooders at Westridge University didn’t find a damned thing, either. Just some stories that make the rounds every Halloween when folks want to scare their kids into good behavior.”
“Them names had some basis in history.”
“There’s no record that Earley Eggers joined the raiders, but I know you’re little touchy about it.”
“You would be, too, if your family’s reputation was shot to hell.”
“That was a century and a half ago.”
“People bury the past, but some things stick around long after they ought to be forgot.”
Bill opened the Humvee door and rolled out of it. Economic prosperity had spread to his waistline. Standing, the top of his balding head barely reached the door handle, but his belly was as inflated as his tires. He smacked his lips as if chewing sunflower seeds. “I know you were the only heir that fought against selling the family property, but I also noticed you didn’t offer to give up your share after we cut the check.”
Hardy swallowed hard. “Turns out people keep buying up property around here and building big homes, driving up their neighbors’ taxes until they either have to sell out or go bust. I needed the money or I’d have lost my land.”
Bill’s grin widened, throwing wrinkles across his forehead and scrunching his bulbous nose. “Growth happens whether you’re ready or not.”
“Yeah, well, shit happens, too, but you don’t see me diving in headfirst and telling everybody the water’s fine.”
“Titusville’s not a secret anymore. It kept popping up on those national lists the magazines keep, the ‘Top 20 best places to retire,’ ‘50 best outdoor adventure towns,’ and all that. After Westridge upset Duke in basketball, you could make it a reasonable question on a geography test.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say your pictures might have made a difference.”
Pride made the grin shift into a smirk, the eyes growing even darker. Budget Bill swept his arm out to indicate the view of the mountains that rippled soft and blue-gray in the distance, evidence that the Earth was a work in progress,
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