The Native Star Read Online Free PDF Page A

“I do hope I haven’t interrupted your hoeing-down.”
    “These tools aren’t yours.” Stanton didn’t seem to notice how haughty and disapproving she was trying to sound. He straightened, a hammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other. He gave each a momentary appraisal, then threw back the hammer.
    “I received an important shipment today.” He stepped over the tools and pushed past her. “From New York. And I have no means of opening the crate.”
    For a moment, Emily considered whistling for Dag and his men and leaving Stanton to his fate. But she’d had enough of toying with men’s fates for one evening.
    “Well, I don’t know how things are done in New York,” Emily said, “but in Lost Pine, it’s considered polite to ask before running off with someone else’s things.”
    Stanton sighed, and even in the darkness she could see him rolling his eyes.
    “Then will you be so kind as to direct me to the owner of this excellent and valuable crowbar, so that I might request the privilege of its usage?” His intonation was extravagant. “Formally, I mean.”
    She showed him into the shed, and with a sharp motion, pointed a finger at Dag, who was towering among a group of friends, laughing in a huge voice.
    Emily snuck a sideways glance at Stanton, hoping to revel in his discomfiture, but he was already halfway across the room, moving with long, purposeful strides. If only Dag would fly off in an uncharacteristic rage and send the pompous Warlock scurrying! But Dag was singularly unobliging. His men were clustered around him, clapping him on the back and yelling congratulations. Dag looked over at Emily, letting his eyes linger on her for a long time. Emily blushed furiously, heat rising up her throat. At the very least he could have gotten a yes before he started telling everyone!
    In his transport of excitement and joviality, Dag didn’t even notice the Warlock standing behind him. Stanton’s throat-clearings went from quietly polite to aggressively cathartic, but were of no avail. He shifted idly from one foot to the other until he was distracted by the sight of women bringing in fresh platters of food. His nostrils twitched as he eyed the piles of fried chicken, the heaps of steaming biscuits, the mounded beef cutlets cloaked in cream gravy. Without another look at Dag, he tucked the crowbar under his arm and followed a steaming apple crisp over to the table. Emily watched with indignation as he took a plate and began to pile it high.
    She was about to set the Warlock straight when someone raised a cry: “Besim!”
    The call was taken up by dozens of voices: “Besim, Besim!” until finally a scrawny old man with scraggly black hair and skin the color of rawhide allowed himself to be pushed to the center of the dirt floor.
    “It’s Besim!”
    “Hey, Besim!”
    “Do us a Cassandra!”
    The request echoed, rippling in dozens of different voices: “A Cassandra, a Cassandra!”
    Smiling toothlessly, Besim motioned to a young man standing nearby, who had obtained a pint bottle of whiskey and was holding it with eager anticipation. The young man leaped forward, proffering the bottle to Besim.
    Besim drained it in one protracted guzzle.
    The room exploded in congratulatory cheers. Coins rained down on Besim, thrown by the men in the crowd. Besim scrambled for these, thrusting them deep into his pockets.
    “Regrettably, your lumberman is in no mood to discuss crowbars.” The voice came at Emily’s elbow. It was that insufferable Stanton, crowbar still under his arm and a brimming plate of food in his hand. He used a chicken leg to gesture at Besim. “So who’s this?”
    “That’s Besim,” Emily said. She eyed the chicken leg meaningfully. “He’s one of those varmints who show up whenever there’s free food and liquor to be had.”
    Stanton chewed thoughtfully as he watched Besim begin to spin. The old man gained speed as he rotated; bystanders pushed him back to the center whenever he