Time's Edge

“They’ll definitely have a wrench. But they’ll probably have to hunt for a nut and bolt to fit.”

“Hey, that’s a good idea.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No,” I say as we roll the bikes back onto the road. “It’s called a compliment. You’re supposed to nod and say thank you.”

“Really? I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“That’s a bit of an assumption, isn’t it? I have to ration these things. If I hand compliments out too freely, they lose their value. And your ego—”

“Which you’ve bruised beyond belief by outshooting me and then refusing motorcycle lessons.”

I fake an a

But as I say the words, I realize that I don’t think they’re true. Every now and then I catch him watching me at an unguarded moment, and his eyes are so vulnerable I almost feel like I’m looking at his eight-year-old self. He clearly enjoys the banter back and forth, however, and we seem to drop into that routine naturally. So naturally, in fact, that I can’t help but wonder if this is how he was with Other-Kate. Is he thinking the same thing I thought about Trey—that we so easily slipped back into our old (at least for me) and comfortable patterns? Or now that we’ve been around each other for a while and he knows me better, does he see someone who only looks like the girl he loved?

He laughs. “Ah, but I can always count on you to poke a pin in me if I puff up like a balloon.”

And I guess that answers my question.

Like the previous two bridges, bridge number six is just slats of wood with big gaps, through which you can see the murky water below. We roll the bikes onto the slats, and Kiernan says, “If my previous experience with the South holds true, they may offer us food and drink. Since we’re only guessing that Saul hasn’t been here yet, I’d suggest we avoid anything that might have come in contact with water from their well—so pretty much everything. If they offer, let’s turn the hospitality thing around on them. There’s a bag of candy at the bottom of the basket. I doubt these kids get sweets very often, and Jess gave me enough to last a year.”

“I hope it’s not that nasty hoarhound stuff,” I say, and his grin reminds me that it’s exactly what Other-Kate would have said.

About fifty feet beyond the bridge, the trail curves and the trees thin out to reveal a small cluster of buildings, circled by rings of farmland in varying shades of green and yellow, bordered on all sides by dense woods like the ones behind us. Two boys and an older girl are tossing a ball around in one of the fields ahead, about halfway to the village. It looks like they’re playing keep-away with a dog, a short-haired mixed breed of some sort.

“Kids,” Kiernan says, his voice flat.

“Yeah.”

“They’re ghosts, Kate. We have to think of them as ghosts. Nothing we can do to change it, so . . .”

“Okay. Ghosts.”

The dog either hears us or catches our scent, because it suddenly whirls around and barrels down the trail toward us, barking loudly.

The girl runs after him. “Bull! You get back here!”

Bull is, fortunately, much smaller than the Cyrist Dobermans. He’s at least part Boston terrier, with buggy eyes, a coat that’s brindle and white, and a whole lot of attitude. He stops about three yards in front of us, and Kiernan moves his bike ahead of mine, turning the wheel inward as a barrier.

The girl, who upon closer inspection is only a few years younger than I am, comes ru

They’re very lively ghosts.

“Bull, I said no!” The barking continues until she yells, “Bad dawg!” At that point it’s like someone flipped a switch. Bull’s bark morphs into a yelp, and he wriggles toward her, leaving a thin, wet trail on the dirt beneath him. I doubt the girl has beaten him, but I suspect someone has, and I’m pretty sure that someone yelled “Bad dawg!” at the same time.

The girl tugs downward on her dress, which is too tight and several inches shorter than the current fashion, and tucks a strand of long white-blond hair behind her ear as her pale blue eyes sweep over us, a bit warily. She takes in my split skirt and the bikes, then lingers for a few extra seconds on Kiernan. Her face turns pink, and her eyes flit back over to me.

“Don’t worry. Bull don’t bite,” the girl says.

As if to prove her wrong, Bull gives us one last halfhearted growl and sinks his teeth into the ball she’s holding.

The two boys nod, and one adds, “But he will latch onto yer leg if he gets a chance an’ sniff in places you prob’ly don’ wa

“He’ll pee on yer shoes, too,” says the other boy.

“Jackson, you hush your nasty mouth. You, too, Vern. There’s ladies present.”

Vern, or at least I think he’s the one she called Vern, gives her a sassy grin. “I don’ see but one lady, Martha. You ain’t nothin’ but a girl.”

Martha yanks the ball out of Bull’s teeth and flings it at the boy, but he ducks.

“An’ you even throw like a girl.”

The other boy claps him on the shoulder and says, “Good one, Jack!” Then they both run off toward the village. Bull looks longingly in their direction, but in the end, he decides to stick with Martha.

“Y’all ain’t from around here,” she says. It’s not a question, just a flat statement of fact. “You at the univers’ty up in Athens?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Matthew Du

“Martha Farris.” She dips into a faint imitation of a curtsy. “Them boys ’re my cousins, Jackson and Vernon. You’ll have to excuse ’em, miss, ’cause they ain’t got a bit of ma

I respond with a nervous laugh. “That’s okay. I’ve seen worse, believe me.”

When she looks back over at Kiernan, he releases the bracket holding the motor and shows her the bolt in his hand. “We were out for a ride, looking for a good picnic spot, but I’m afraid we’ve had a mishap with one of the bikes. Don’t suppose you know anyone who’d have a wrench and maybe an extra bolt?”

“Hold on a minute,” Martha says, veering a few feet off the trail to collect the ball. Her face crinkles in disgust when she realizes it’s now coated with dirt, held in place by dog spit. She bends down to wipe it off on the grass before sticking it into her pocket.

“Come on. Earl’s got a wrench. Don’t know about a bolt, but he shoes the horses and fixes the wagon, so if he don’t have it, we ain’t got one.” She walks along the side of the trail next to me, with Bull at her heels, pushing through the tall grass along the edges. “Ain’t ever seen a skirt sewed up the middle like that, even up in Greensboro. Are ladies really wearin’ those in Athens?”

“Only when they ride bikes,” I say. “It makes it a lot easier.”

She glances at the bike again and nods. “Guess so. Ain’ ever seen a bike with a motor, either. I bet they ain’t cheap.”

“Cheaper than an automobile,” Kiernan says. “And nearly as useful. At least until it rains. Or the motor comes loose.”

He flashes his best smile, the one that lights up his eyes and makes him damn near irresistible. Martha’s face and neck instantly flush a deep pink. In a town with fewer than fifty people, two-thirds of them female, I’m guessing she doesn’t encounter many young men. I bump the wheel of my bike against his to signal that he should rein it in a bit, but that just makes him turn the smile on me, even broader now, because he clearly thinks I’m jealous.