The River Kept the Secret

SCRIPT DOES NOT MATCH PODCAST WORD FOR WORD The river was louder on Sundays. Mae Thompson knew it was not literally true. The Nisqually did not care about the Sabbath. But without chains dragging, axes ringing, men calling across clearings, and Ol’ Skookum coughing somewhere beyond the ridge, the water seemed to take the valley back. Mae sat on a weathered cedar log above a crescent of pale gravel and let it. The morning was cool beside the river. Wet stone, cedar bark, and black earth scented the air. Sunlight moved through the firs in broken pieces, brightening one stretch of current while the next stayed dark beneath the branches. A breeze came downstream, lifted the loose edge of Mae’s skirt, and tried to turn a page of the drawing pad across her knees. She caught it with one hand. “You and I are not friends.” The river offered no opinion. Mae went back to the fish. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. It held behind a submerged rock perhaps twenty feet from shore, almost motionless until she watched closely enough to see the work of staying there. The current pressed. The tail corrected. For a heartbeat the fish turned and flashed silver beneath the surface. Mae drew quickly. Not every scale. Not every fin. She wanted the shape of the thing—the way it could appear still while working constantly to remain where it had chosen to be. A kingfisher cut low across the water and vanished downstream. The breeze returned, cooler this time, carrying the smell of damp gravel and crushed fern. It lifted a strand of hair across Mae’s cheek and worried the corner of the page again. She pinned the paper beneath her palm until it passed. Behind her, Timberline existed mostly as suggestion. A cabin door shut. A child called for somebody. Farther off came a burst of laughter and the faint clink of porcelain. Sunday had softened the camp without putting it entirely to sleep. Church would gather them soon enough. Clara had made certain Mae remembered that before she left. “Church.” “I know.” “Before church.” “I know that too.” Mae had escaped before knowledge became supervision. Her pencil had gone blunt. “Naturally.” She opened the little knife beside her and shaved the cedar casing back until the graphite came sharp again. One curl of wood landed on her skirt. Another stuck to the page. Mae blew it away. “Better.” She folded the knife and set it beside her. The fish was gone. Mae leaned forward, searching the water. Nothing. Then a larger fish broke the surface upstream with a sudden slap. Mae’s pencil jumped half an inch off the page. A dark back rolled, water flashed, and the fish disappeared before she could see more than the wet curve of it. Mae watched the rings flatten into the current. There were worse ways to spend a Sunday morning. She had just lowered her pencil when something changed behind her. Not a voice. A missing sound. The small bird working through the salal went still. Then came the crunch of one boot on gravel. Mae’s pencil stopped. Another step. Then nothing. She did not turn. Nearly two months earlier, a quiet visit to the river had somehow acquired Jack Mercer, Sam Mercer, cedar kindling, one badly judged backward step, and Pete Hawkins standing in the Nisqually with water pouring off him while attempting to retain whatever dignity the river had left him. Mae pressed her lips together. She had drawn the wet hat afterward. She had also drawn the ears. The ears had not been necessary. Mae remained satisfied with them. Behind her, the person on the gravel still had not moved. That narrowed the possibilities considerably. Mae finally looked over her shoulder. Pete Hawkins stood at the edge of the trees. Far back. Not politely far. Not cautiously far. Far enough that Mae briefly wondered whether he intended to conduct the entire conversation by shouting across the county. He had washed. That was the first thing she noticed, which irritated her immediately. His hair was still damp at the temples, though one section had already escaped whatever comb had attempted to discipline it. He wore a clean shirt, brushed trousers, and boots polished well enough to prove effort if not success. When the breeze shifted, Mae caught the faint smell of soap. His cap was in his hand. Pete looked less like a man who had come to the river looking for Mae than one who had discovered her there and was now trying very hard not to make that discovery her problem. “Morning, Mae.” “Morning, Pete.” He stayed where he was. The river filled the space he left between them. Pete looked toward the river. Mae looked back at the drawing pad and waited for the nervous grin, the explanation, or some spectacular piece of reasoning involving weather, church, a missing tool, or a wandering mule. Nothing came. Mae drew one short line on the page. Scritch. Pete remained among the trees. She drew another. Scritch. The absurdity of it began to build. Finally Mae looked back at him. “You lost?” “No.” “You waiting for somebody?” “No.” Mae glanced around at several acres of perfectly serviceable outdoors. “Then why are you standing all the way up there?” Pete looked at the distance between them. For the first time, some of the uncertainty Mae remembered from June moved across his face. But he did not step forward. “Wasn’t sure how close you wanted me.” The river seemed suddenly louder. Pete shifted his cap from one hand to the other, but his boots remained exactly where they were. Of everything he might have carried away from June, he had carried her words. Mae lowered her eyes to the drawing pad. The unfinished fish waited beneath her pencil. She made herself add another line. “You don’t have to stand there.” The invitation sounded larger once she heard it aloud. Pete did not move immediately. “No?” “Pete, if I wanted you back in camp, I’d have said so.” His mouth twitched. There he was. Not much. But there. “All right.” He came down from the tree line slowly, as if giving her time to change her mind. Gravel shifted beneath his boots; fern brushed his trouser leg. Mae watched him choose where to stop. There was room beside her on the cedar log. Pete did not take it. Farther along the cedar was another place to sit, close enough for conversation but leaving room between them. Pete looked at it, then at Mae. She gave the smallest nod. He sat at the farther end anyway. More room than she had asked for. Pete set his cap beside one thigh. From his pocket he took a worn work glove, a short length of thread, and a needle already stuck carefully through the leather near the cuff. The glove was darkened at the palm from work. When Pete flexed it open, the dry hide creaked. Mae stared. Pete noticed. “What?” “Nothing.” “You’re looking at my glove.” “I’m looking at the fact that you apparently came prepared to sit quietly.” Pete considered the glove. “Thought I might need something to do with my hands.” Mae looked down before the smile could become too obvious. “That may be the wisest thing you’ve done all summer.” Pete threaded the needle through a worn seam. The needle made almost no sound going in. The thread did—a tiny, fibrous rasp as he drew it through the old leather. “Been a slow summer for wisdom.” A laugh escaped through Mae’s nose before she could stop it. Pete’s face brightened, then he seemed to remember himself and looked down at the glove. Mae had liked the grin before he put it away. She turned back to the river. The fish she had been drawing was still gone. The page remained. So did Pete. Mae set the pencil to paper again. Scritch. Scritch. Beside her, leather creaked faintly as Pete drew the thread through. The Nisqually moved around stone, indifferent to both of them. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Mae had expected the silence to become awkward. It did not. Mae drew. Scritch. Scritch. Pete worked the needle through the glove. The leather resisted him once. He pushed harder, frowned, then stopped before the needle slipped. Mae watched him turn the glove, study the worn seam, and try again from a different angle. The point went through. Pete pulled the thread after it with a slow rasp. He did not swear. Mae looked down quickly at her page. The old Pete might have blamed the glove. This Pete turned it over and tried again. Mae drew another line beneath the fish. The fish—or another like it—had returned to the quieter seam behind the submerged rock. Its tail made one small correction, and silver-green flashed beneath the surface. Mae shaded the water around it. Pete glanced toward the fish but said nothing. That silence began to irritate her. Not because she wanted him talking. Because she was beginning to notice that she did. Mae shifted the drawing pad against her knees. Pete drew the thread through another stitch. She waited. Nothing. She drew half a dozen lines that did not improve the fish. A gust moved through the firs and reached the riverbank cool off the water. Mae put one palm over the top edge of the pad. The breeze lifted a strand of hair across her cheek. She ignored it. It tickled the corner of her mouth. She tried to blow it away. It came back. Mae made an annoyed sound and tucked it behind her ear. Pete looked over. She caught him. He looked immediately back at the glove. Mae stared at him. Pete concentrated on the leather with the solemnity of a surgeon. “You can look at me, Pete.” The needle stopped. He lifted his eyes. “I know.” “Do you?” “Pretty sure.” Mae waited. Pete’s mouth twitched. There he was again. “You’re acting like I told you never to turn your head in my direction.” “Didn’t want to overdo anything.” “Looking is overdoing it?” Pete considered that with more seriousness than the question deserved. “Depends what a man’s looking at.” Mae felt the answer land somewhere lower than she wanted it to. Pete seemed to realize what he had said at exactly the same moment. His ears colored. Mae looked back at the river before her face gave him anything useful. “That sounded better in your head, didn’t it?” “Most things do.” Mae laughed. Pete looked pleased enough with himself that she almost regretted giving it to him. Almost. He went back to the glove, and the silence returned easier than before. Mae let herself draw for a while. The fish shifted into stronger current, worked its tail twice, then slipped back toward the quieter seam. Mae followed it with quick graphite marks. A soft gray smudge had appeared along the outside of her little finger. She rubbed at it with her thumb. It spread. “Well, that helped.” Pete looked over again. Mae held up the gray side of her hand. “Artist’s mark?” “Artist’s incompetence.” “Looks official.” “You would know.” “About incompetence?” Mae glanced at him. “You said it.” Pete nodded solemnly. “Been studying.” That made her smile again. Mae had expected being alone with Pete again to require management. Instead, he repaired a glove, left her room, and somehow she was enjoying herself. She looked down at the fish and realized she had stopped drawing again. Pete noticed. “Lose him?” Mae looked toward the water. The fish had vanished beneath glare. “Maybe.” Pete leaned forward slightly, forearms against his thighs, but did not move his boots. “There.” Mae followed his gaze. The fish was farther downstream now, holding in another patch of softer water beneath a darker shelf of current. “You have better eyes than I thought.” Pete looked mildly wounded. “I work around falling trees.” “That does seem like a profession where seeing would be useful.” “They encourage it.” Mae’s pencil found the page again. “How’s it going?” “The seeing?” “The work.” Pete looked at her, then back at the glove. “Better.” “That sounded convincing.” “It is better.” “Mm.” He threaded another stitch. Mae waited. Pete finally added: “I don’t get yelled at near as much.” “A glowing recommendation.” “I measure progress where I find it.” Mae smiled down at the page. “Who yells at you most?” “Depends what I did.” “That wasn’t what I asked.” “I know.” “Pete.” He laughed softly, quieter than the laughter Mae usually heard from him in camp. “Jack if it can kill me. Olav if I’m near iron. Sam if he thinks I ought to know better.” Mae considered that. “And if you don’t know better?” Pete pulled the thread tight. “Then Sam tells me twice.” “Does that help?” “Usually.” “You mind it?” “Being told?” “Being corrected.” He looked down at the glove in his hands. For a moment, Mae thought he might joke. He did not. “I mind being wrong.” The answer came plain. He worked the needle through another hole. “Don’t mind somebody keeping me from staying that way.” Mae’s pencil stopped. Pete seemed unaware of what the sentence had done. Or perhaps he knew and had learned not to rush in behind his own words. Mae looked at his work-roughened hands. His fingers were not elegant with the needle. They were careful. She looked back at the river. “That’s a useful habit.” “Getting things wrong?” “Learning before it kills you.” “Jack says similar things with fewer words.” Mae could imagine. “Feet. Now.” Pete’s head came up. “You’ve heard him.” “Everyone has heard him.” That got them both laughing. A kingfisher cut low across the water and vanished downstream. Pete watched it go. “Show-off.” “Better at fishing than you?” “Almost certainly.” “Can you fish?” “Enough to disappoint a fish.” Mae laughed again. The wind came back lightly, not enough to disturb the drawing pad this time. It moved through the grass at their feet, bending the seed heads in one direction. Mae felt cool air slide under the loose edge of her sleeve. Beside her, the repaired glove gave a faint leather creak as Pete flexed his fingers. Mae became aware of the distance between them again. Still there. More than enough room for another person. She looked at Pete. He was tying off the stitch now, brow lowered in concentration. “You’re awfully quiet today.” Pete looked up. Mae let the words hang between them. He glanced toward the river. “Last time I figured talking was helping.” Mae’s mouth threatened a smile. “And now?” Pete rubbed the knot flat beneath his thumb. Then he looked out at the current. “Now I figure listening might.” Pete flexed the repaired seam once and inspected his work. Mae lowered her eyes. The pencil touched the page. Scritch. For a while after that, they let the morning be ordinary. Mae drew. Pete tightened one stitch. From camp, a man called that he could not find his collar, and a woman answered with enough volume to suggest it was exactly where she had already told him it was. Pete’s shoulders shook once. “Sunday.” “Apparently.” “Dangerous day.” “For collars?” “For men who don’t listen.” Mae looked over. Pete was smiling at the glove. This time she let herself smile back. The wind moved through the treetops again and lifted the loose hair at Mae’s temple. She pressed a palm to the top edge of the drawing pad. Pete noticed and looked away before the pages could show him anything they had not been invited to show. A gust came down the river. Grass bowed. Ferns dipped. Mae put one hand across the pad. “Here we go.” Pete looked up. “What?” “Nothing you can help with.” That earned her the smallest lift of one eyebrow. Mae ignored him and held the page flat. The first gust passed. Then a stronger one caught her skirt, her hair, and finally the pages. “Oh, come on.” Fffft—ffft—ffft. Several sheets flipped backward before Mae trapped them under her forearm. “Pete—” He turned toward her because half the riverbank appeared to be trying to leave. Then he stopped. Not physically. His body was already still. His face stopped. Mae caught the pages against her forearm. The wind moved on. Fabric settled against her legs. The loose strands of hair clung to her cheek for another heartbeat before falling away. The drawing pad lay quiet again beneath her palm. Mae gathered the lifted sheets and pressed them flat. Then she looked at Pete. Pete was studying the opposite bank with great concentration. Mae followed his gaze to a perfectly ordinary gray rock half in the water. Apparently geology had become urgent. Mae looked down at the pages she had caught. Her stomach dropped half an inch. There. Not the fish. Not the river. Not the wet hat with the unnecessary ears. Pete. The drawing was several pages back, made from memory after Mae had watched him helping Olav near the iron shed. Pete had stood listening to a lesson about a shackle and chain—no grin, no interruption, no glance around to see who was watching. Mae had drawn the concentration around his eyes and the set of one shoulder. She had drawn him steadier than he usually believed himself to be. Apparently Pete had seen it. His eyes had widened, his mouth had opened, and now the rock across the river had become the most important object in Pierce County. Mae pressed the pages together. Pete continued studying the rock. Mae put the pencil back to the page. Scritch. Pete’s jaw tightened while the rock remained under examination. Mae let him suffer for one more breath. “Pete.” “Mae.” “You saw it.” The river went on moving. Pete’s eyes closed briefly. Then he turned his head. “Wasn’t trying to.” Mae’s grip on the pad loosened. “I know.” Pete looked at her then, no longer braced for punishment. Mae straightened the top edge of the pad with her thumb. Pete glanced down once. Then away. He picked up the repaired glove and ran his thumb along the seam as if checking it for the fifth time might produce new information. He did not ask. The old Pete would have been halfway through a question before the page settled. Mae waited until she could no longer tell whether she was testing him or herself. “You aren’t going to ask?” “Ask what?” Mae narrowed her eyes. Pete’s mouth twitched. “That one didn’t count. I know what.” “Good.” He looked at the pad again. Then at the river. “Didn’t reckon it was mine to ask for.” Mae’s thumb stopped against the edge of the page. Pete looked back toward the river and left the answer where he had put it. The portrait lay hidden again beneath the fish and river studies. She could leave it there. Instead, Mae rubbed the graphite smear along her hand with her thumb and turned back three pages. Pete heard the paper move. He did not look. Mae found the portrait. There he was—Olav’s post in rough lines behind him, the rope at his hip only suggested, his sleeve unfinished. But his face was complete. Mae looked at it longer than she meant to. Then she turned the pad toward him. Pete still did not look down. He looked at Mae. She gave the smallest nod. Only then did he lower his eyes. The river filled the silence between them. Pete said nothing for several breaths. Embarrassment gave way to something quieter as his gaze moved carefully over the rope, the post, the angle of his own shoulder. Pete swallowed. “That’s me.” Mae glanced at him. “I had gathered.” He ignored that. His eyes remained on the paper. “When’d you draw it?” “A while ago.” “Where?” “Near the iron shed.” Pete frowned faintly. Then recognition arrived. “Olav was showing me the new shackle.” Mae nodded. “You were listening.” Pete looked up. The words seemed to surprise him more than the portrait had. “Well. Yeah.” Mae nearly smiled. “I know.” Pete looked back at the page. His voice, when it came, was quieter. “Didn’t know I looked like that.” Mae’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the pad. There it was. The place she could retreat from. She could joke. She could tell him she had improved him for artistic purposes. She could say the light had been flattering. She could take the page back and bury the whole thing beneath a discussion of fish. Instead Mae looked at the drawing again. “You don’t.” Pete turned toward her. “What?” Mae could feel warmth beginning at the base of her neck. She disliked that he might see it. She disliked more that she was going to say the thing anyway. “Not to everybody.” Pete did not move. The repaired glove rested forgotten in his lap. Mae looked back at the portrait because looking at Pete himself had become abruptly more difficult. For a moment, only the current remained, and the empty stretch of cedar between them seemed much smaller. Pete let out a breath. Mae turned the pad back toward herself. Neither of them spoke. She felt exposed, but not unsafe. Mae lowered the top pages over the portrait. The fish returned to the front. Pete picked up the glove again. He did not begin sewing. For several breaths he simply held it. Then he said, carefully, “Fish still there?” Mae looked toward the current. The seam behind the rock was empty. “No.” Pete nodded. “Probably got tired of being studied.” Mae looked at him. Pete’s eyes widened a fraction. “That wasn’t—” Mae laughed. The tension broke so cleanly that Pete laughed too, head dropping toward the glove. “I swear, I ought to be allowed to hear myself before I say things.” “That would give you an unfair advantage.” “Against who?” “Mostly yourself.” He considered that. “Fair.” The warmth between them settled into something easier. Mae found the fish again farther down the seam and added two lines to the page. Scritch. Scritch. Pete ran the needle beneath the last stitch and pulled the thread tight. For a while they spoke about nothing important. Pete claimed Maggie’s Sunday meal would taste better after church because hunger had time to become righteous. Mae told him hunger had never needed religious instruction. Somewhere behind them, a child shouted triumphantly about finding a shoe. Pete lifted one finger. “See? Miracle.” Mae laughed. The conversation wandered nowhere in particular, and she let it. Mae shaded the underside of the submerged rock. Pete tied off the thread and bit the end clean. Mae’s attention caught briefly on his mouth. Annoying. She looked back at the page. Pete flexed the glove. The repaired seam held. “There.” Mae looked at it. “Useful?” “Almost dangerous.” “Don’t let Jack hear you say that.” Pete slipped the glove over one hand and opened and closed his fingers twice. “Jack hears things nobody says.” “That is because most of you are loud enough to think in public.” Pete smiled. Then Mae saw the smile fade a little. The river encounter in June sat between them again as unfinished business. She put the pencil across the top of the pad. “Pete.” “Yeah?” “I told you something last time.” Pete’s expression settled. “I know.” “And?” He looked down at the glove on his hand. His thumb worked once across the repaired seam. Mae waited. Pete took the glove off again. “Figured you’d already done your part.” Mae turned toward him a little more. “What part?” Pete folded the glove slowly, once at the cuff. “Telling me.” The answer rested between them. Mae did not speak. Pete glanced toward her, then away again. “Didn’t seem right making you tell me twice.” Mae’s fingers loosened around the pencil. She looked at the empty cedar between them. “Why’d you stay away, Pete?” Pete stared at the river for a moment. “Figured you meant what you said.” “I did.” “Then I figured I ought to leave you enough room that you didn’t have to ask for it again.” Mae picked up the pencil and added one small line along the fish’s back. Scritch. Pete waited. She liked that more than she wanted to. “All right.” “All right what?” Mae kept her eyes on the page. “You listened.” Pete looked faintly confused by the seriousness of the statement. “Tried to.” “Most men say that after they’ve already explained why they didn’t.” Pete thought about it. “Seems a waste of breath.” Mae laughed softly. “It is.” Mae let the conversation breathe. She worked at the darker line beneath the fish’s belly while Pete sat with the mended glove folded in both hands. After a while, she said: “There was something else you didn’t understand last time.” Pete looked over. “All right.” “You liking me wasn’t the problem.” His ears went pink. “I gathered that. Eventually.” Mae almost smiled. “You could afford to be foolish that day in a way I couldn’t. You could fall in the river and come back a fool. If people made a story out of why I was alone with you, or what I’d allowed, I could come back a different kind of woman in their eyes.” Pete’s humor disappeared. “That story wouldn’t have belonged to me anymore.” He looked down at the glove. “I didn’t think about that before.” “I know.” “I have since.” He frowned at the river. “A man can be stupid and mostly folks say he’s stupid. A woman does the same thing and folks start asking what kind of woman she is.” “That’s part of it.” “Seems crooked.” “It is.” Mae let the quiet stand. “If we’re going to spend time together, you need to understand something. Me asking you to be careful isn’t the same as me saying I don’t want your company.” “All right.” “And I need to know I’m not the only one thinking past the next ten minutes.” Pete looked up. “You asking whether I do?” “I am now.” “Sounds like a trap.” “Only if the answer is no.” Pete gave a helpless little shake of his head. “What do you want, Pete?” “Right now?” “Eventually. From your life.” “Oh.” He looked at the river and searched for an answer. “Work, I reckon.” Mae waited. Pete glanced over. “That’s not enough, is it?” “That tells me nearly nothing.” He laughed once. “All right.” He thought again. “I want to be good at something.” “That surprised you,” Pete said. “A little.” “I don’t mean anybody-knows-my-name good. I mean useful. The kind where a man can tell me to do a thing and not come back wondering if I’m under it, tangled in it, or arguing with it.” Mae hid a smile. “You’re describing staying alive and getting paid for it.” “That too.” Mae picked up the pencil again. “You still like the woods?” Pete looked toward the trees. “Some days.” Mae drew one line. “That wasn’t what I asked.” Pete sighed. “You do that a lot.” “Ask what I mean?” “Make me answer it.” “It’s a terrible habit.” “I’m noticing.” Mae waited. Pete leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “Yeah. I do.” “Why?” He frowned. Mae almost told him he did not have to answer. Then Pete said: “Because there’s something honest about it. Tree doesn’t care what you meant to do. Rope doesn’t care if you were tired. You saw it right or you didn’t.” “And if you didn’t?” “Jack. Feet. Now.” Mae laughed. “You reckon you’ll stick with it?” Pete glanced at her. “Reckon I’m finally getting useful.” Mae lifted one eyebrow. Pete closed his eyes. “That wasn’t what you asked.” “No.” “You enjoy this too much.” “A little.” Pete sat back. The cedar gave a faint dry creak beneath his weight. Then he nodded. “Yeah.” Mae waited. He looked directly at her. “I mean to stay. Long as they’ll have me.” “And if they don’t?” “Find another crew.” “Still logging?” “If I can. I think I can get good at it.” Mae looked down at her sketchbook. The portrait beneath the top pages seemed to have become heavier simply because Pete now knew it was there. She turned the pencil between her fingers. “Do you want a house?” Pete nearly dropped the glove. “You jumped from rope to a house.” “Life moves quickly.” He recovered. “One that don’t leak. Stove. Table. Porch might be nice.” For one instant Mae saw a porch under trees, boots by a door, evening light on rough boards. She put the picture away. “Anything else?” “Enough work to keep it.” Mae nodded slowly. Her pencil rested motionless across the page. She drew another line on the fish. Scritch. Pete watched her hand. “Your turn,” Pete said. “What do you want?” “Work I’m good at. Time to draw.” “You already have both.” Mae looked at him. “What?” “Your baking. The drawings.” “I want people to understand the drawing counts too.” Pete nodded once. “And I want choices.” “Seems fair.” “It should be.” “I know.” The silence sat easier now. A faint smell of cooking drifted from camp, and Mae’s stomach noticed before she did. Pete noticed too. “Hungry?” Mae frowned at him. “No.” Her stomach made a small, treacherous complaint. Pete looked toward the river. Mae stared at him. His mouth compressed. “Go ahead.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Your face did.” Pete turned back toward her. “Apparently I possess one of those.” Mae laughed so suddenly she had to catch the drawing pad before it slid from her knees. Pete laughed too. Still smiling, Mae looked at him. “What is it you like about me, Pete?” Everything in Pete stopped. The glove. His hands. His face. Mae had the distinct impression he had just discovered the bridge beneath him ended three feet sooner than expected. Mae waited. Pete looked at the river. Then at the trees. Then, incredibly, toward the same rock across the river that had nearly saved him from the portrait. Mae followed his gaze. “It cannot help you twice.” Pete shut his eyes. Mae smiled. “Well?” He looked at her. “You’re pretty.” Mae let one eyebrow rise. Pete winced. “I know that ain’t all of it.” “Good.” “I just started with the obvious.” “You certainly did.” Pete rubbed both palms over his knees. Mae waited. “And you’re funny.” “Am I?” “Mostly when you’re being mean to me.” “That seems unfortunate.” “For me, yes.” Mae smiled. Pete looked down at his hands. “And you don’t rattle easy.” “You have seen me rattled.” “Usually because of me.” “There is a pattern.” “I’m working on it.” Mae looked back at him. “Keep going.” “There’s more?” “I certainly hope so.” He laughed nervously. Then he went quiet. His gaze dropped to the drawing pad. “You can do that.” “Draw?” “Yeah.” “You noticed.” Pete gave her a look. “There is a picture of me in there.” Mae’s face warmed. “That is not the point.” “It is from where I’m sitting.” Mae tried not to smile. Pete continued. “You see things.” The words came slower now. “Not just drawing-things.” Mae waited. Pete rubbed one thumb across the other palm. “People.” “That is extremely specific.” “I’m getting there.” Mae let him. Pete looked toward the river, then back at her. “You know when somebody’s pretending they’re all right. You notice who needs help, and you don’t make a big show of helping.” Mae said nothing. “You’re smart. You work hard.” “You have been watching.” Pete looked briefly alarmed. Mae spared him. “Continue.” “And you’re kind.” Mae’s pencil stopped turning between her fingers. Pete kept his eyes on his hands. “Not nice all the time.” Mae’s mouth opened. “That came out wrong,” he said quickly. “I mean you’ll tell somebody when they’re being foolish. But you don’t embarrass people just because you can.” Mae went still. “You could’ve,” Pete said. “I drew the ears.” “Nobody’s perfect.” Mae laughed. His voice stayed gentle. “You could’ve made me feel smaller than I already did. You didn’t.” Mae looked at the empty space between them. For the first time all morning, it seemed excessive. Pete had not finished. “And…” Mae waited. Pete looked at her, then away. “You make me want to be less of a fool.” Mae stared at him. The river moved around the submerged rock. The fish held behind it. “Less?” Pete looked back at her. His expression was completely serious for perhaps half a heartbeat. Then the old Pete surfaced. “I’m trying not to promise miracles.” Mae laughed so hard the pencil nearly slipped from her hand. Pete laughed too. When it faded, she found herself still looking at him. The empty stretch of cedar between them no longer seemed quite so necessary. Mae looked back at the page and added two strokes beneath the fish’s belly. Scritch. Scritch. The smell from camp came stronger now—woodsmoke and something savory warming in iron. Pete’s stomach made a small sound. Mae looked over. Pete looked offended. “That wasn’t me.” “Of course not.” “River.” Mae looked at the Nisqually. “The river is hungry?” “Big country.” Mae shook her head, still smiling. She rested the pencil across the pad. “Suppose we did keep company.” Pete stopped breathing. Mae did not look at him immediately. She watched the fish. The silence beside her grew so complete that even Pete’s stomach seemed to understand the situation and behave itself. Finally Mae turned her head. Pete was staring at her. His face had gone carefully blank. “Suppose?” “Suppose.” Pete looked down at the glove. Then at the river. Then, apparently deciding no rock in Washington Territory was qualified to save him from this question, back at Mae. “All right.” “What would you reckon changed?” “Changed?” “Between us.” His ears colored. Mae let him work. Pete rubbed the folded edge of the glove against his palm. “Reckon I’d get to ask if you wanted to spend some time with me.” Mae tilted her head. “You can ask that now.” Pete frowned. “That’s true.” Mae waited. He glanced toward her. “You’re going to make me keep going.” “Probably.” Pete sighed, but there was no resistance in it. He thought again. “Reckon the difference is we’d both know what we meant by it.” Mae’s fingers stilled on the pencil. Pete looked at the river as he continued. “Not why we were sitting by the river.” “That was clear enough.” “Eventually.” Mae smiled. Pete’s mouth moved too. Then he became serious again. “We’d both know it might be going somewhere.” Mae looked down at the drawing pad. “And what would you expect from me?” Pete answered too quickly. “Nothing.” Mae looked at him. Pete winced. “That sounded wrong.” “A little.” “I mean not nothing.” Mae waited. Pete rubbed both hands over his knees. “I’d hope you wanted to spend time with me.” Mae nodded once. “That seems reasonable.” “And I’d hope…” He stopped. Mae watched him. Pete looked almost embarrassed by what he was about to say. “I’d hope if something bothered you, you’d say so.” Mae’s expression changed. Pete noticed. “So I don’t have to guess.” “Men everywhere thank you.” Pete smiled faintly. Then he rubbed the folded edge of the glove against his knee. “And I don’t reckon keeping company means I get to start deciding things for you.” Mae watched him. “You’d still…” He frowned at the glove. “You’d still be you.” “That is encouraging.” Pete looked up. “I’m doing poorly again, ain’t I?” “You’re wandering.” “Right.” He tried again. “I’d still have to ask, Mae.” Mae looked at him fully. “And if you asked and I said no?” Pete met her eyes. “Then you said no.” Mae held his gaze for a moment longer than she had meant to. “All right.” Pete’s eyebrows lifted. “That one was all right?” “Don’t become impossible.” “Trying not to.” Mae’s mouth twitched. Voices carried more clearly from camp now. Sunday was moving. Mae found the outline of the submerged rock again with her pencil. “Would you mind people knowing?” “Knowing what?” Mae did not rescue him. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” Mae waited. Pete looked toward camp. “That I was keeping company with you?” “Yes.” He considered. “Wouldn’t mind.” Mae looked at him, suspicious of how quickly the answer had come. Pete added: “Might mind what Sam does with the information.” There he was. Mae smiled. “And Jack?” Pete became still. Very still. Mae waited. Pete looked toward the trees as though Jack Mercer might materialize from them merely because his name had been used irresponsibly. “I reckon I can mind Jack a little.” Mae laughed. Pete grinned. Then the grin faded. His eyes returned to Mae. “But no.” “No what?” “I wouldn’t mind people knowing.” Mae stopped drawing. Pete turned the glove over in his hands once. “If I mean it, Mae…” The river filled the pause for him. “I don’t reckon you ought to carry all the risk of folks knowing.” Mae looked at him. The empty cedar between them now felt almost ridiculous. She rested the pencil across the pad. “Pete.” “Yeah?” “I told you to give me room.” His expression tightened slightly. “I know.” Mae looked at the cedar between them. Then at him. “I didn’t tell you to go away.” Pete did not move. The river struck the submerged stone with a soft, continuous hiss. A leaf turned slowly in an eddy near shore. Pete looked at the empty stretch of log. Then at Mae. She shifted slightly and touched the cedar beside her with two fingers—not beside enough to crowd her, but nearer than he had been. “You can come a little closer.” Pete looked at the place. Then at Mae again. “You sure?” Mae’s smile came before she meant it to. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.” Pete stood and moved to the place she had indicated. No nearer. There was still room between them, but now Mae could hear him breathe beneath the river and smell the faint soap on his clean shirt. Pete did not move toward her again. He saw the smile. His mouth started to do the same thing. Then he caught it. Mae laughed softly. “You can smile too.” Pete released the grin. “Still learning the rules.” “There are fewer than you think.” “That’s what worries me.” Mae shook her head. For a while, neither spoke. This silence required nothing from either of them. Mae could imagine sitting this way again. Then she closed the drawing pad. The soft whuff of paper meeting paper sounded strangely final. Pete looked at it. Then at Mae. Mae rested both hands on the closed cover. “Pete.” “Yeah?” “Ask me.” Pete stared at her. Mae waited. His brows drew together. “Ask you what?” Mae closed her eyes. Of course. Of course he had made it this far. She opened them again. “You were doing reasonably well this morning.” Pete looked alarmed. Mae tilted her head. “Don’t ruin it now.” Recognition arrived, followed quickly by panic and joy. Pete picked up his cap, realized holding it made him look as though he were about to petition a judge, and put it down again. Mae bit the inside of her cheek. Pete drew one breath. “Mae Thompson…” He stopped. Mae waited. Pete looked at her. This time there was no rock. No glove. No joke. Only Pete. “Would you let me keep company with you?” Mae had known her answer before she told him to ask. Still, hearing the question changed something. She let Pete wait one heartbeat longer, then smiled. “I believe I would.” Pete did not move. For one remarkable instant, Mae wondered whether she had broken him. Then his face opened into a grin—something warmer beneath it. He looked down at his hands as though they had become untrustworthy. No one touched. The space between them remained, but it no longer felt empty. Pete looked toward the river. Then back at Mae. “You mean it?” Mae raised an eyebrow. Pete nodded quickly. “Right. You said it. Once.” “You are learning.” “Slowly.” “I noticed.” Pete laughed beneath his breath. Mae let him have another few seconds. “Maggie will know.” Pete’s grin weakened. “Maggie knows things before God does.” Mae laughed. “Clara will know.” “Figured.” “Sam will know.” Pete groaned. “Mae.” “I’m only making sure you understand the consequences.” “I understood until Sam.” Mae smiled sweetly. “And Jack.” Pete went still. The river continued. Mae watched him. Pete stared at the gravel. Then he inhaled through his nose. “That’s all right.” Mae’s smile faded a little. “Is it?” Pete looked at her. The humor settled out of his face. “If we’re doing it proper, I don’t reckon it ought to be something I hide.” The sun had shifted, and voices from camp had gathered into the sound of people moving toward church. Pete heard it first. He listened, then looked back at the river once. “We ought to go.” Mae said nothing. Pete glanced at her. “Church.” “I know.” “Didn’t want you getting back late.” Mae slid the pencil into the pad, gathered the little knife, and brushed cedar dust from her skirt. Pete stood first without offering a hand. Mae stood on her own and smoothed the back of her skirt. Pete picked up his cap. For a moment they stood beside the cedar with the whole morning between them. Mae looked toward the trail. “You should probably go first.” Pete’s face fell so quickly that she nearly laughed. “Why?” “Because if we arrive together looking like that, Maggie will know before God and Clara will know before Maggie.” Pete tried to arrange his face. It did not improve. Mae laughed. “Go.” Pete put on his cap. He took three steps. Mae looked at him. “Pete?” He turned at once. Mae held the drawing pad against her skirt. “You can come back.” Pete tried to contain his face. Poorly. “All right.” Mae smiled. Pete hesitated. Then, because restraint had limits even on a successful Sunday morning: “Same distance?” Mae looked toward the cedar. Then at him. Her smile got loose. “We’ll see.” Pete stood there for one beat too long. Then he seemed to remember he had legs. He turned toward camp. Mae watched him go. He was trying very hard to walk normally. The effort made him less normal with every step. By the time he reached the edge of the trees, Mae had to look down so he would not turn around and catch her laughing. The brush swallowed him. Gravel crunched once. Then twice. Then the forest folded around the sound. Mae remained beside the river one minute more. She opened the drawing pad to Pete’s portrait, then turned to another small study of him laughing with Sam—and, tucked near the back, the wet hat. With the ears. Mae smiled and returned to the unfinished fish. Mae looked toward the river. A fish held in the seam behind the submerged rock, its body making tiny corrections against the current. Mae watched longer this time. The tail moved. The body corrected. The current pressed. The fish held. Mae lowered her eyes to the page. For the first time that morning, she knew where the line should go. Her pencil touched paper. Scritch. She followed the curve beneath the body. Scritch. Scritch. The river continued downstream. It had heard everything. This time, it told no one. If you’d like to help Timberline keep growing, your donation supports the stories, artwork, research, podcasts, and the technical work of bringing Tacoma Shadow to publication. HELP BUILD TIMBERLINE Get full access to Timberline: Lessons by the Campfire at www.timberlinecampfire.com/subscribe