Ron Rash - Serena

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Webb said.

"No, of course you don't. Just as I'm sure there's no reason you happen to be in Jackson County this morning."

"There's a reason," Webb replied, and lifted a Hawkeye camera from the seat. "Kephart knew where an especially impressive waterfall was, so he took some photographs. I'm putting one on the front page tomorrow."

"Looks like he got wet doing it," Harris said, nodding at Kephart's boots. "Too bad he didn't fall and drown."

"Nice to stop and chat," Webb said, already rolling his window up, "but we've got a busy week ahead."

Webb released his hand brake and the Pierce-Arrow clattered on across the bridge.

"Waterfalls," Harris muttered.

They passed a thick stand of hickory and ash, then a pasture where a single birch tree rose in the center, its silver bark peeling from the trunk like papyrus. Beside the tree, a salt lick and wooden trough. The road came to an abrupt end at the farmhouse and they got out. A foreclosure notice was nailed to the front door. Hoover can go to Hell scrawled across it in what looked to be charcoal. A sense of recent habitation lingered-stacked poplar in the woodpile, on the porch a cloth sack of pumpkin seeds, a cane pole with line and hook. A dipper hung in a branch over the creek, reflecting the midday light like a crow-scat.

"They were up here," Harris said, pointing to a set of fresh tire prints.

Harris reached down and lifted a couple of stones from beside the tire's indention, examined them a moment and tossed them back on the ground. He picked up a smaller stone and looked at it more carefully.

"Looks like it could have some copper in it," he said, and placed it in his pocket.

Serena ascended the porch steps and peered through a window.

"It looks like solid oak all the way through," she said approvingly. "If we knocked down some walls, this could be used for a dining hall."

"Meet back here at five?" Harris asked.

"Fine," Pemberton said. "Just make sure you don't lose track of time contemplating the beauty of Kephart's waterfall."

"I'll make sure I don't," Harris said grimly, "though I may piss in it."

Harris tucked his pant cuffs into his boots and walked up the creek, quickly disappeared inside a green tangle of rhododendron. Pemberton and Serena followed a trail up the ridge. The mid-afternoon sun was out, spreading cold light across the slope. Last week's snow lingered beneath the bigger trees, and a springhead they stepped over was cauled by ice. Pemberton walked slowly and made Serena do the same. At the top they could see the entire tract, including a section where several towering chestnuts rose.

"Campbell's right," Pemberton said. "A good deal at twenty an acre."

"But still not as good as Townsend's price," Serena said, "especially with the expense of building a trestle over the river. That's slow work as well, and you always lose some men."

"I hadn't thought of that."

Serena placed a hand on her coat where the wool cloth covered her stomach. Pemberton nodded at a boulder smooth and flat as a bench.

"Sit down and rest."

"Only if you do as well," Serena said.

They sat and gazed out at the vast unfold of mountains, some razed but many more yet uncut. The Tuckaseegee flowed to the west, low drifts of fog obscuring the banks. To the far north, Mount Mitchell pressed against a low graying sky that promised snow. A skein of blue smoke rose from nearer woods, probably a hunter's campfire.

Pemberton reached out, placed his hand inside Serena's coat and laid his palm lightly on her stomach, held it there a few moments. Serena gave him a wry smile but did not remove his hand, instead placed her hand on top of his, her words whitened by the cold as she spoke.

"The world lies all before us, Pemberton."

"Yes," Pemberton agreed, looking out on the vista. "As far as we can see."

"Farther," Serena said. "Brazil. Mahogany forests the same quality as Cuba's, except we'll have them all to ourselves. There's not a single timber company in operation there, just rubber plantations."

It was the first time Serena had spoken in any detail about Brazil since they'd left Boston, and Pemberton now, as then, responded to Serena's fancy with good-humored irony.

"Amazing how no one else has ever thought of harvesting those trees."

"They have," Serena said, "but they're too timid. There are no roads. Miles that miles that never have been mapped. A country big as the United States, and it will be ours."

"We have to finish what we've started here first," Pemberton said.

"Investors' money we raise for Brazil can help us finish quicker here as well."

Pemberton said nothing more. They waited a while longer, silent as they watched the afternoon wane before them, then slowly walked down the ridge, Pemberton stepping ahead of Serena where the ground was icy, holding her arm. It was almost five when they got to the farmhouse, but Harris was still off scouring the creek and outcrops.

"His being gone this long," Serena said as they waited on the porch steps. "Surely that's a sign he's found something."

As though summoned by Serena's words, Harris emerged from the rhododendron. His boots were clotted with mud, and cuts on his hand showed he'd fallen. But as he stepped across the creek an enigmatic smile rose beneath his clipped moustache.

"So what do you think, Harris?" Pemberton asked as they drove back to camp.

"For my interests this tract's better," Harris replied. "Not by much, but enough to sway me. There's definitely more kaolin here. Maybe some copper as well."

Serena turned toward the back seat.

"I wish we could say the same about this tract, but Campbell's right. There's some good lumber but not nearly the hardwoods Townsend's has."

"Maybe we can get Luckadoo to lower the Saving and Loan's price to fifteen an acre," Harris said, "especially if we offer to close quickly."

"Maybe," Serena said, "but ten an acre would be better."

"I'll talk to him tomorrow," Harris said. "I suspect we can get the price down."

It was after seven when they got back to camp. Pemberton pulled in front of the office where Harris had parked his Studebaker. The older man departed the back seat slowly, due more to the empty flask than his age.

"Want to eat something before you go back to Waynesville?" Pemberton asked.

"Hell yes," Harris said. "All the scampering up and down that creek has given me the appetite of a horse."

Pemberton looked at Serena and saw that her eyes were heavy lidded.

"Why don't you go on to the house and rest. I'll get Harris fed, then bring our dinner."

Serena nodded and left. Though it was seven, the lights were on in the dining hall. From inside the building's walls, a ragged choir sang "Thy Might Set Fast the Mountains."

"We let Bolick hold evening services around Christmas and New Year's," Pemberton said. "I find it worth a few dollars of electricity to keep the workers Godly, though I will get a less bothersome camp preacher next time."

Harris nodded. "A great business investment, religion. I'll take it over government bonds anytime."

Pemberton and Harris stepped onto the side porch and opened the door. The kitchen was deserted, despite pots left on the grange stove, soiled dishes piled beside the fifty-gallon hoop barrels filled with gray water. Pemberton nodded toward the main hall's doorway, where Bolick's sonorous voice had replaced the singing.

"I'm going to get a cook and server."

"I'll go with you," Harris said. "Get my yearly dose of religion."

The men went into the back of the hall, their boot steps resonant on the puncheon floor. Workers and their families filled the benches set before the long wooden tables, women and children in front, men in the rear. Reverend Bolick stood behind two nailed-together vegetable crates that raised a rickety altar. Laid upon it was a huge leather-bound Bible, wide pages sprawling off both sides of the wood.