Chapter 7: The Desperate Pilgrimage
At two o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, a battered taxi pulled up the gravel drive of the timber workshop in Elkhorn.
Deborah and Brooke stepped out into the mud.
They wore expensive wool coats that were missing dry-cleaning tags, their designer shoes sinking into the wet gravel and sawdust. They looked around the bustling timber yard—where three heavy draft horses were pulling logs and four young apprentice carpenters were running broadaxes—with visible bewilderment.
They walked toward the open double doors of the barn, where the rhythmic *thud-clack* of mallets echoed into the crisp air.
Nora stood at the central assembly bench, wearing canvas work trousers, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, and safety glasses. She was carefully measuring the pitch of a sixteen-foot king-post truss with a brass framing square.
Deborah stopped at the threshold, her hands clasped together against her chest, her face pale, drawn, and lined with desperate grief.
""Nora..."" Deborah spoke, her voice cracking, stripped of all its former haughtiness.
Nora paused, set her pencil down on the timber, and took off her safety glasses.
She looked at her mother and sister with calm, steady eyes.
May you like
""Hello, Mother. Hello, Brooke.""
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