Rory Sawyer was much more subdued, but very polite. He was quieter than his brother and no less watchful, also checking on their surroundings, and he would get up often and go through the back of the house to check on that side of the property. He made regular visits to the chicken coop to make certain the chickens were locked up so that any fox or skunk wasn’t able to get to them. Twice, Rubin had gone with him. Jonquille was certain it was to talk about Patricia’s need to take things easier.
The food was delicious, just as the Campo brothers had said it would be. Patricia could have made top dollar cooking for one of the restaurants springing up for tourists. Surprisingly, it was Diego and Edward who gathered the dishes and took them inside to wash before returning to the porch for evening conversation and drinks.
This time the cider had a little kick to it. Jonquille was startled by the slight, unexpected hint of fermented apple and pear. The cider was smooth and spicy, refreshing and delicious. It was also extremely dangerous in that one could easily drink several glasses of it without realizing it was actually an alcoholic beverage.
She smiled at Rubin. “I’m definitely not drinking more than one of these. Okay, maybe two.”
Patricia laughed. “They sneak up on you.”
“Not like Luther’s alcohol. His is fiery smooth,” Edward said. “Everyone wants his, but you know you’re drinking it.”
“I thought he made illegal moonshine. Isn’t that really crude and will burn your stomach lining and all the rest of you as well?” Jonquille asked.
“He’s been at it so long, he’s perfected his moonshine into an art, just like Mama Patricia’s cider,” Rubin said. “No, his whiskey is the best.”
“Can you work your natural healing on the brain, Rubin?” Edward asked, his voice teasing. “I think old man Gunthrie could use a little help upstairs, if you know what I mean.”
Rory nodded. “Yeah, he’s finally losing his marbles,” he agreed. “Last winter he decided the government is watchin’ him and wants to bust his still. You know how he gets over that still of his. Like they couldn’t care less about it, but every couple of years, he’s convinced they’re comin’ for him. He moves it from place to place.”
“You don’t know, Rory,” Patricia said, her voice a mild reprimand. “They might be. His whiskey is very famous.”
“In a hundred years, he’s never been busted, Ma,” Edward pointed out and burst out laughing. His brother joined him.
“Because he moves his still,” she said. “See, he moves it for a reason.”
“Right. Like he did last winter. You know how hard it is to move that thing at his age in winter, in the dead of night, leaving no tracks?” Edward demanded. “He’s gone completely round the bend. He was suspicious of me when I told him I’d help him. He’s known me since I was born and he asked me if I was a government spy on their payroll.”
“Well, are you?” Jonquille asked.
There was another round of laughter, but Jonquille thought it was a perfectly good question. Rubin took her glass of cider and replaced it with a different one.
“Everyone has always thought he had the second sight,” Patricia said. “There have been raids other places. I’m certain he’s been investigated and he was never caught in them. They never found evidence of wrongdoing at his house. If he’s making moonshine, why is it he’s never caught?”
“He’s making moonshine, Ma. Everyone knows it. We drink it. He brings it to the house. You’ve had it before. Don’t pretend you haven’t,” Edward said. “That old man makes the best there is in these parts. He makes top dollar on it. Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”
Patricia raised her eyebrow. “You know I knew his wife very well and visited her on many occasions. I never saw a still or evidence of one. As for Luther being crazy, he may be old, but he’s just as sane as any of us.”
“Ma, he doesn’t have a car. He doesn’t trust them,” Edward said. “Calls them contraptions. He can shoot the wings off a fly, but he can’t drive a car? He can move a still in the middle of the night on his own, but he can’t talk to a backpacker? He can travel miles in a blizzard with snowshoes to check on you when the nearest neighbors can’t, but he can’t fit into the modern world at all? I could go on and on.”
“Never forget he communes with the hornet people,” Diego added with a little grin.
“Oh, not that,” Patricia said.
Jonquille’s eyebrow shot up. “What in the world?”
“There were so many stories and rumors about Luther,” Patricia said. “Mostly to scare the teens. Lights in the middle of the night, ghosts, I don’t know. The kids would dare one another to go to his property. Then they’d tell tall tales and scare each other more.”