Auggie looked at the boy suspiciously. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.” His red coat was faded from the long Virginia summer.
“The hell you don’t. I walked outside this morning and found my favorite fruit tree hugging the grass.”
“The one near the Rappahannock River? Just up from the mill?”
“You know any other gean trees of mine? It’s a very special place to me. Mary Ball and I…” he trailed off. Her illness was getting worse.
Or was it his illness? He couldn’t remember anymore.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t have anything to do with it. Maybe the beavers decided to make a cherry dam. That is the spring thing, you know?”
“Is Great Bridge for sale, too?” Auggie asked.
“Which bridge?” General confusion.
“Never you mind. I sincerely doubt a 10-year-old boy has paid attention to the building habits of beavers and their choice of lumber. Besides, David Weems says he saw you heading that way. With an axe.”
The boy twiddled his thumbs and took in the grass. He knew his father was dying.
Nodding almost to himself after a long moment, he looked up at his father.
“I cannot tell a lie,” George said.