Chapter 8: The Pilgrim at the Gate
In late October, when the valley maples were glowing like burning embers against the granite peaks, an unfamiliar vehicle crawled up the logging road.
It was a hired black sedan from Atlanta.
The car stopped at the split-rail cedar fence outside the homestead.
Stepping out was Julian.
He had been released on pre-trial monitoring pending his formal sentencing hearing under a plea agreement. He wore a dark wool coat, his hair unstyled and untrimmed, his face thin, hollow, and lined with the deep, agonizing exhaustion of a public downfall.
He walked toward the timber workshop where the sound of hand planes and mallets echoed into the crisp air.
Silas stood at the shop entrance, holding a four-pound wooden commander mallet across his chest, his eyes cold and immovable as a mountain cliff.
""You've crossed three fences too many, son,"" Silas said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl.
Julian stopped five paces away, his hands trembling as he pulled a thick manila envelope from his coat and laid it on the chopping block beside the drive.
""Mr. Cole... please,"" Julian rasped, his voice cracked and devoid of charm. ""I have a restraining order, I know. I am not stepping past this line. I only came to deliver this to Emma.""
Emma stepped out from the drafting room door, wearing her canvas work apron, holding a drafting ruler.
May you like
She walked to her grandfather’s side, looking at Julian across the open gravel.
---
