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the ground at that moment, though she felt the urge to fly. As a compromise, she took the free arm Brent offered and charged him to lead on.
    “Actually,” he said, “I was hoping you would lead me.”
    “To?”
    “To the place you told me about. Your fairy ring.”
    He said it with such intimacy, such ownership —not of theplace, but of her, and the arm linked through hers both held her and compelled her to lead him.
    “And I thought,” he said, as if picking up a thread of conversation, “you could bring your guitar.”
    “My guitar?”
    Speaking the same word right after him, Dorothy Lynn noticed the difference in their speech—almost a reversal of syllables. He must have noticed it too, because he smiled, leaned into her, and said, “Yes, your git- tar,” in such a way as to join them together in the word.
    “It’s at the house,” she said, giggling.
    “No.” He handed the basket to her and, with a mischievous air, ran ahead and stepped off the path, where he reached behind an impressive pine and produced her guitar, holding it triumphantly by the neck.
    Dorothy Lynn’s toes curled into the moist earth. “You set it on the ground?”
    He looked stricken. “Just for a few minutes. I wanted to surprise you.”
    She reached and took it from him, trading the basket. “It’ll warp.” She ran her hand along the familiar curve of the wood. “That can ruin the sound.”
    “It wasn’t long, I promise. I held it the whole time I waited for you. I didn’t set it down until I heard you coming.”
    As far as she knew, the only other person who had ever even touched her guitar was Donny, and she felt a surge of protection not only for it, but for her music. Her path. Her portion. “I told you I never shared my songs with anybody.”
    He resumed walking, and she fell into step beside him.
    “I noticed you were writing during the sermon.”
    “Not the sermon; the psalm. There’s a difference.”
    He granted her that. “And I heard you humming as you came up the path. Is it a song?”
    “Not yet. I have to think on it.”
    By the time they reached what Dorothy Lynn had come to know as her clearing, their conversation was equal parts laughter and words, with moments of breathlessness in between.
    “If Pa had known you were such a jokester, Brent Logan, he’d never have let you set one foot behind his pulpit.”
    “I wish I could have heard him in his prime.”
    “He was so good. So powerful, like his very words were keepin’ us held to our seats. I used to love it when he’d let me come up and recite a verse of Scripture, seein’ all those faces. Kind of turned my stomach. . . .” Her voice trailed off, remembering.
    “It’s not an easy thing to do. But your father had a gift, and I like to think I have a calling. I can only hope God will equip me to be worthy of that legacy.”
    Dorothy Lynn leapt to restore his confidence. “Oh, Pa might have only heard you preach a few times—and he was mighty sick at that—but I heard him tell Ma more than once that he thought you were a fine preacher.”
    “I take that as the highest compliment.”
    “You ought to, since I think he concerned himself more with handin’ over his flock than handin’ over his daughter.” Then she swung her arms wide. “We’re here.”
    They’d stepped into a nearly perfect circle of soft, green grass under an expanse of cloudless blue sky. Large, rounded stones sat in groups of three or four, as if arranged for a formal parlor rather than a simple clearing in the Ozark Mountains.
    “It does seem magical,” he said, twisting his head to take it all in.
    “This is my lot,” Dorothy Lynn whispered. “Take your shoes off.”
    “Are you saying it’s holy?”
    “No, just inviting. God made the grass the softest carpet here. Seems a shame not to take every advantage of it.”
    He did. After taking the folded blanket from the top of the basket and sending it wafting to the ground, he sat right down and removed his