At least, she thought, her brother had not turned to drink.
But there was a different problem. From what he'd said about this
homestead, even a sober man didn't have much to work with, no
trees to speak of, bad soil. Maybe they could keep a few chickens if
there weren't wildcats and foxes to snatch them away. If it came to
that, she was a good shot, though if there was shooting to be done,
a gun was required. Addie pictured this flat dry land with a few
chickens, realizing there was one thing she couldn't imagine. What
kind of place he'd put up. Was it any better, or at least bigger, than
the hovel they were staying in right then? Room enough for two
people to sleep in beds at least? The way Tommy spoke, maybe that
didn't matter. She'd be alone most of the time. Maybe it was the life
her mother had chosen thrown in Addie's lap without asking. She
felt for her drawstring purse in the small sack lying by her side. It
was thin as a gutted trout, but inside was enough money to get back
to Kentucky. It was also enough to stay for a while.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...