Chapter 8: The Pilgrim on the Ridge Road
In early May, when the wild mountain laurel was blooming in clusters of pale pink and white across the ravines, an old grey commuter bus stopped at the crossroads two miles outside Sperryville.
A lone passenger stepped down into the gravel.
It was Richard.
He wore a faded cotton shirt, dark denim trousers that were dusty at the cuffs, and worn leather walking shoes. His bespoke tailoring had been sold to pay legal retainers; his styled hair was cut into a short, practical buzz; his face was thin, sunburned, and stripped of all performative charm.
He walked up the winding mountain road, carrying a single canvas duffel bag.
Through the trees, the rhythmic, thunderous *thump-clack* of the water-powered sawmill echoed down the valley.
Richard reached the wooden split-rail fence of the mill yard.
He stopped, staring at the bustling scene: twenty young apprentices working around the timber flatbeds, three heavy draft horses hauling logs from the forest path, and the clear, rushing water of the millstream sparkling in the sun.
Standing near the main saw carriage was Clara. She was wearing a canvas apron, holding a timber caliper, inspecting a fresh-cut slab of tulip poplar.
May you like
Richard stood at the gate, his hands gripping the top rail, his shoulders shaking with the sudden, overwhelming weight of the world he had discarded.
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