Wish You Well(81)

dropped to the ground, forgotten.

George Davis had stepped from the woods quiet as a fog. For Lou, his nice clothes and

clean face did nothing to soften the evil in the man. Oz was instantly cowed by him, but

Lou said fiercely, "What do you want?" "I know 'bout them gas people. Louisa gonna

sell?" "That's her business."

"My bizness! I bet I got me gas on my land too." "Then why don't you sell your

property?" "Road to my place goes cross her land. They can't git to me 'less she sell."

"Well, that's your problem," said Lou, hiding her smile, for she was thinking that perhaps

God had finally turned his attention to the man.

"You tell Louisa if she knowed what's good for her she better sell. You tell her, she better

damn well sell." "And you better get away from us." Davis raised his hand. "Smartmouthed cuss!" Quick as a snake, a hand grabbed Davis's arm and stopped it in midair.

Cotton stood there, holding on to that powerful arm and staring at the man.

Davis jerked his arm free and balled his fists. "You gonna get hurt now, lawyer."

Davis threw a punch. And Cotton stopped the fist with his hand, and held on. And this

time Davis couldn't break the man's grip, though he tried awfully hard.

When Cotton spoke, it was in a tone that was quiet and sent a delicious chill down Lou's

back. "I majored in American literature in college. But I was also captain of the boxing

team. If you ever raise your hand to these children again, I'll beat you within an inch of

your life."

Cotton let go of the fist and Davis stepped back, obviously intimidated by both the calm

manner and strong hands of his opponent.

"Cotton, he wants Louisa to sell her property so he can too. He's kind of insisting on it,"

said Lou.

"She doesn't want to sell," said Cotton firmly. "So that's the end of it."

"Lot of things happen, make somebody want'a sell."

"If that's a threat, we can take it up with the sheriff. Unless you'd like to address it with

me right now."

With a snarl, George Davis stalked off.

As Oz picked up his baseball, Lou said, "Thank you, Cotton."



CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

LOU WAS ON THE PORCH TRYING HER HAND AT DARN-ing socks, but not enjoying it

much. She liked working outside better than anything else and looked forward to feeling

the sun and wind upon her. There was an orderliness about farming that much appealed to

her. In Louisa's words, she was quickly coming to understand and respect the land. The

weather was getting colder every day now, and she wore a heavy woolen sweater Louisa

had knitted for her. Looking up, she saw Cotton's car coming down the road, and she

waved. Cotton saw her, waved back, and, leaving his car, joined her on the porch. They

both looked out over the countryside. "Sure is beautiful here this time of year," he

remarked. "No other place like it, really."

"So why do you think my dad never came back?" Cotton took off his hat and rubbed his

head. "Well, I've heard of writers who have lived somewhere while young and then wrote

about it the rest of their lives without ever once going back to the place that inspired

them. I don't know, Lou, it may be they were afraid if they ever returned and saw the

place in a new light, it would rob them of the power to tell their stories."

"Like tainting their memories?"

"Maybe. What do you think about that? Never coming back to your roots so you can be a

great writer?"

Lou did not have to ponder this long. "I think it's too big a price to pay for greatness."

Before going to bed each night, Lou tried to read at least one of the letters her mother had

written Louisa. One night a week later, as she pulled out the desk drawer she'd put them

in, it slid crooked and jammed. She put her hand on the inside of the drawer to gain

leverage to right it, and her fingers brushed against something stuck to the underside of

the desk top. She knelt down and peered in, probing farther with her hand as she did so.

A few seconds later she pulled out an envelope that had been taped there. She sat on her

bed and gazed down at the packet. There was no writing on the outside, but Lou could

feel the pieces of paper inside. She drew them out slowly. They were old and yellowed,

as was the envelope. Lou sat on her bed and read through the precise handwriting on the

pages, the tears creeping down her cheeks long before she had finished. Her father had

been fifteen years old when he wrote this, for the date was written at the top of the page.

Lou went to Louisa and sat with her by the fire, explained to her what she had found and

read the pages to her in as clear a voice as she could: