Until the Harvest by Sarah Loudin Thomas Page A

Squirrel. Well, he’d eaten most every squirrel he ever shot, and this wasn’t half bad. A little tough. Probably Clint’s woman didn’t parboil her squirrel like Grandma did. But still it was tasty. He finished what was on his plate and hoped that would satisfy his host.
    “Got your fill?” Clint spoke as Harold banged open the back door.
    “Aw, did you save me any?” he whined.
    “Son, I ain’t left you to starve yet. Your ma made aplenty. Now sit down and shut up.”
    Harold grabbed a squirrel leg and was eating before his rear hit the chair. Henry figured manners weren’t a priority for the Simmons clan.
    Clint turned his attention back to Henry as he fished a key out of his pocket. He dangled it in front of Henry but didn’t offer it to him. “Boy, you sure you don’t want to back out?”
    Henry could see a glimmer in the old man’s eyes that he didn’t like. Might be Clint would like it if he chickened out. Might be there were worse things than risking his life and freedom to deliver some moonshine.
    “My dad raised me to do what I say.” He grabbed the key. “And so I will.”
    Clint laughed and tilted his chair back on two legs. “Well, then get to it.”

    Charlie jammed his crutch in the back along with his guitar and flopped into the passenger seat. “Bring your fiddle?”
    “It’s in the truck.”
    “Get it. There’s some decent pickers out there at Jack’s place, and it’ll give us an excuse if the sheriff gets aholt of us.”
    Henry grabbed his fiddle and slid in behind the wheel. Theengine started with a low rumble that stirred Henry’s blood. This was a fine piece of machinery.
    “We’re gonna make a quick stop along the way,” Charlie said. “Pa thinks you can still make a living running moonshine, but the real money’s not in liquor anymore.”
    Henry glanced at his friend, at least he wanted to think of Charlie as his friend. He didn’t feel good about this extra stop, but he pushed down any misgivings, put the car into gear, and eased out onto the dirt road. He was itching to see what the car could do but knew better than to push it while Clint was watching. Once he hit the paved road, he slanted a look at his passenger. “Want to see what she’s got?”
    Charlie grinned. “Open her up.”
    Henry did. He didn’t see the deputy’s car tucked into a side road until after they shot past it. But just that glimpse made everything in him go tight, and he sent up an almost involuntary prayer that the deputy would let them go. His prayer went unanswered.
    The flash of red and blue lights filled Henry’s vision. He pressed the accelerator and shifted, pushing the car along the pavement, squealing the tires in the curves. The black and white kept coming, but there was no siren. Henry almost wished the deputy would make some noise; the silence seemed to press against his skull. He had a vague impression of Charlie bracing himself against the door and grinning like a crazy man, but he didn’t have time to look.
    Henry knew there was a side road up ahead that curved through property owned by the Prentices. It had been the main thoroughfare once upon a time, but when the county paved the roads, they straightened them out, and what was generally known as Prentice Road had been abandoned. It was probably grown over by now, but Henry had to get shut of the police car behind him.
    “Hang on,” he said and opened the Barracuda up as far as he dared.
    Charlie gave a Rebel yell, and Henry was grateful to finally have the silence shattered. He downshifted into a turn, and when he whirled out of it braked just enough to take Prentice Road way faster than could be good for either him or the car. Charlie hollered, this time most likely because the rough ride was hard on his leg.
    Henry kept the car flying over the rutted, overgrown excuse for a road. He could hear branches scraping down the sides and wondered which would be worse, getting arrested and losing Clint’s load of moonshine or