Call the Devil by His Oldest Name Read Online Free Page B

see.”
    Logan watched, stunned. He hadn’t had much luck trying to kill Mary Crow in Atlanta, so he’d come up here hoping that Little Jump Off store might give him some clue as to getting rid of her. Though he’d figured out that Walkingstick and Mary Crow were no longer a couple, he assumed the great hunting guide would mend his broken heart with a new bow or a fishing rod, not a new wife and baby.
    â€œBut you’ve got no business over there.” Walkingstick jiggled the baby faster. His hawkish features softened as he nuzzled the child’s neck. “They’re Tennessee bones.”
    â€œThose bones belong to us, Jonathan, just like Tennessee used to.”
    â€œYeah, three hundred years ago.” Walkingstick transferred the fretful infant to his other shoulder. “That war’s over, Ruth. Andrew Jackson beat us, unfair and unsquare.”
    â€œRuth,” Logan whispered, watching as the woman capped her marker and moved over to the rocking chair. With the fire bathing her face in its flickering glow, he could almost see Martha Crow sitting there. They had the same black hair and cinnamon skin. Ruth. He looked closer, then caught his breath as she shucked off her sweater. All at once she sat there naked from the waist up, her breasts big as melons. Jesus, he thought, feeling a kind of awe inside. Martha had never done that.
    Walkingstick handed the baby to his wife. The woman cradled the child in her arms and pressed one dark nipple into its mouth. Logan could not tear his gaze away.
    â€œI don’t understand you, Jonathan.” Ruth continued their discussion as the baby nursed. “Clarinda’s coming to help with Lily. They’ve given us a VIP campsite. Archaeologists from all over the country will be speaking. You’ll have a wonderful time.”
    â€œLily doesn’t need to be there. A thousand things could happen.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œShe might get sick. Everybody will want to hold her. Somebody with some weird strain of flu might breathe in her face. Somebody might drop her.”
    â€œI’m taking my medicine bag, Jonathan. Lots of sage and comfrey. Granny Broom told me what to do if she gets sick.”
    â€œGranny Broom?” Walkingstick frowned at a row of bushy plants that hung from the mantel, drying upside down. “What the hell does that old witch know about children? How much sage should you give an infant? How are you going to get comfrey in a nursing baby?”
    â€œYou make a tea, Jonathan. Give her little sips, if she needs it, which she won’t.” Sighing, Ruth frowned at her husband. “Listen. You’ve got to lighten up. You can’t protect Lily every minute of every day. You’ll go crazy before she even starts walking.”
    Logan watched, mesmerized, as Ruth lifted the baby to her shoulder and patted her on the back. Moments later, she nestled it against her other breast. An ancient anger began to stir inside Stump Logan, like the coals of a long-dead fire rekindling into flame, suddenly glowing orange where they’d long been sooty black. Lately he’d been so caught up in his efforts to rid himself of Mary Crow that he’d forgotten how much he hated Jonathan Walkingstick. The smart-ass bastard had almost torpedoed Martha Crow’s murder investigation fourteen years ago, asking questions that could not be answered, proposing murder theories that only frightened people more. He thought he’d gotten rid of Walkingstick when he’d hassled him so badly, he’d joined the Army. But Walkingstick had done his hitch and returned, ever since looking at the sheriff of Pis­gah County as if he were some pale, nasty thing that had crawled out from under a rock.
    â€œHave you got permits and toilets and para­medics lined up?” Walkingstick was asking his wife.
    â€œGabriel Benge took care of all that.”
    â€œAh, yes. How could I forget the University