The Edge of Hell: The Mitchell Brothers Series Book One

21

Over the next five weeks, Wolstan had to admit thoughts of whether Cyrus lived or died resided at the far back reaches of his mind, only occasionally clawing their way to the front in the final moments before sleep claimed him.

Otherwise, he was busy with the necessary repairs to the house, the barn raising, and stealing every available second he could to be alone with Mae when she wasn't occupied with chores or helping Emmaline prepare for the upcoming wedding, now two weeks away.

After several lengthy—and, at times, heated discussions—the higher of the two offers on the farm was accepted with a provision they could remain in the house until the end of February, and they began preparations for their move out west.

There were days of chaos, mounting excitement, and, if Wolstan were honest, trepidation. A lot could go wrong before they reached their destination, no matter how well they tried to plan ahead.

Not to mention the volatile relations between settlers and Indian tribes they would knowingly be placing themselves in once they arrived in Idaho territory.

It was enough to make even the most battle-hardened of men extra wary.

"WOOLY," Emerson called down, drawing Wolstan's attention to where he stood on the barn roof near the top of the ladder. "We're almost finished. You gonna bring up that last cord of shakes you been holding for the past ten minutes or keep admiring 'em?"

Wolstan frowned and glanced at the cedar shingles in the crook of his left elbow. Then he gave himself a mental shake, hurried up the ladder, and handed them over. "Sorry—got a little sidetracked."

Emerson grunted as he cradled the cord of shingles in his right elbow and carefully walked to the last section where Declan knelt waiting.

"Took you long enough," he grumbled. "You get lost?"

"Looks like you both made good progress without me," Wolstan said, grabbing a thick stack from the bundle and ignoring his brother. "Care to wager how many we'll have left over?"

"Why?" Declan asked.

Wolstan shrugged. "For fun. Might make things go faster."

"All right," Declan said, "good enough reason for me. Uncle Em?"

"Sure," Emerson nodded. Then, with his nose and cheeks red with cold, he glanced from Wolstan to Declan and grinned. "Two."

"Two?" Declan said with an arch of his brow, looking just as cold as their uncle. "And spoken with enough confidence to make a man suspicious. You know something we don't, Uncle Em?"

"Nope, I've just done more than my fair share of roofing throughout my life to have developed an innate sense about these things."

Declan pursed his lips, his thoughtful gaze darting between the empty section and the remaining shingles before declaring, "All right, I'll lowball it too; I say four."

"What about you, Wooly?" Emerson asked.

"Zero."

"What?" Declan whined. "Zero?"

"Yep."

"What do you mean zero? You can't claim zero—can he?"

Emerson shrugged and nodded. "I don't see why not; it's a number like any other."

Declan frowned, his lips curling in feigned disgust. "You really think we're gonna end up using every last one of 'em—"

"The perfect roof," Wolstan said with a smile and nod. "And if I'm right—"

"Oh, yes," Emerson grinned, hammering three into place, "let's talk about the reward for whoever gets it right."

"Losers have to do the winner's chores for a week?" Wolstan suggested.