It took CJ a few seconds to register that there had been a deafening boom, and then to see the blood spreading over his shattered arm. It was the last thing he saw before he fell. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed.
CJ heard a sound from somewhere far away, but when he opened his eyes, all he saw was Dennis’s face. He heard disjointed words, phrases strung together—“helicopter,” “going to be okay”— but none of it meant anything to him.
Then Dennis leaned in close, and while it seemed to CJ that his friend whispered his next words, he understood them perfectly. “That was s-stupid,” Dennis said.
CJ could smell the old mahogany, a scent made richer by the passage of two hundred years’ worth of hands sliding up and down the banister. He could save half the balusters, maybe a few more than that. He’d turn on a lathe the new ones to match, and he already knew that when he finished, no one would know the difference. He’d keep the newel posts, even with the crack in the one. For some reason, the thought of replacing them seemed wrong. Anyway, when he was finished, their imperfections would be as invisible as would the newness of the balusters.
Thor, observing CJ from his spot on the stone surrounding the fireplace, seemed to agree. With his cast-encased leg stretched out at an odd angle, the dog gave what looked like a wink before snorting once and lowering his head to return to his nap.
Dennis was installing the kitchen floor; CJ could hear the saw blade cutting through the white oak. He was grateful that Dennis was here working with him, for his friend could do the things that CJ, with his injured arm, could not.
He wasn’t sure how long he would stay, but he knew it wouldn’t be longer than the job required. Just long enough to fix what needed fixing. It was Dennis who’d put it into words. He’d said that preserving history was difficult when exorcising ghosts. They’d been standing on the porch, looking out over Adelia at the time, and it seemed to CJ more appropriate than anything he could have said, even if he felt unsure that exorcising ghosts was what he was doing.
Janet had called a couple of times since they’d brought him off the mountain. She’d almost come to see him in the hospital, but he had talked her out of it. He didn’t think he had the strength to fix more than one thing at a time. It was enough for him to know that she might be willing to hoist a hammer along with him. It granted him the absolution he needed, to do what he had to here.
Sal Jr. and Edward had agreed to let him sell the house on Lyndale, and he was grateful for that. He knew what losing the place meant to them. Neither, though, could have marshaled a defense of the familial claim with the ferocity George might have mustered. And since he and Graham were busy with the upkeep of their long-term ten-by-ten-foot residences, the house and acreage would pass into different hands with hardly a whimper. The prospective buyer came from England, and CJ thought that fitting, if for no other reason than that the man’s long-dead countrymen, who had gone to their deaths under the guns of Baxter patriots, would at long last find themselves interred in friendly soil.
When the saw blade stopped, the peculiar silence native to an old house—a vacuum made up of groans and creaks and the knocking of ancient pipes—returned. CJ stood at the foot of the steps for a while and listened to all of it, and at some point he came to realize that, like the smell of aged wood, none of these things had ever left him despite his best efforts. And he was surprised to find that he was thankful for that.
Sometime later, when he heard the sound of a power tool spring to life, which had nothing to do with floor installation, he smiled and headed toward the kitchen.
Acknowledgments
Once again I’d like to offer my sincere thanks to Luke Hinrichs and Dave Long at Bethany House for their hard work, from the time I first brought them the idea for Hunter’s Moon, all the way through the final edit. I’d also like to thank the rest of the Bethany House team—especially Noelle Buss—who have been so supportive of both my books.
I am in debt to my family, who give me the time I need to do this, as well as hugs that work magic on writer’s block.
Lastly I’d like to thank you, the reader, because I’m assuming that if you’re reading this, you’ve bought the book. Or maybe you checked it out of the library, which is good too. Support your local library!
About the Author
Don Hoesel, the acclaimed author of Elisha’s Bones, lives in Spring Hill, Tennessee, with his wife and two children. Hunter’s Moon is his second novel. He has also published short fiction in Relief: A Quarterly Christian Expression. Don holds a bachelor’s degree in mass communication from Taylor University. When not writing novels, he spends his days working in the communications department of a large company.
Table of Contents
COVER PAGE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DEDICATION
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Don Hoesel Page 34