“Wooo, he holds a grudge.”
Kirk nodded.
“Do you think he’d help me?”
“Worth a shot. I’ll take you over this morning and you can try for yourself.”
He wondered what reaction his grandfather would have to Angelica. He had never had many friends and hadn’t come to town much in recent months. But he used to love to sing. Who had he hurt most by his refusal to sing in the festival, Kirk wondered.
It was after ten when Kirk and Angelica arrived at the farm where Kirk had grown up.
“This is so pretty,” Angelica said as they drove down rows of corn bordering the drive. “When is the harvest?” She studied thetall plants noting the ears were clearly visible and looked as large as any she’d ever eaten.
“Starts next month.”
“And where does all this corn go?”
“We put up some. Locals buy it from Granddad and the rest is for the hogs.”
“Hogs?”
“That’s my grandfather’s primary money-maker. Hogs.”
When he pulled into the yard surrounding the house, Angelica noted the old homestead was made of wood, freshly painted and looking solid and enduring. Behind the house was a barn, smaller than the one she’d seen built. It was painted a rust color red. The huge double doors stood wide open. From inside she could hear the squeal of hogs. The noise was almost deafening. A hound dog ran from the barn. Angelica wondered how it could have heard the truck over the noise of the animals.
“Late feeding this morning,” Kirk commented.
He went around the truck and opened her door, then gestured toward the barn. “Want to see?”
She nodded, falling in step as he headed that way, petting the dog as he trotted next to them, tail wagging.
Inside the barn was lit by overhead lights. Stalls lined each side of the wide center aisle, but whereas the horse barn had high walls, these were only about four feet high. The sound hurt her ears and she covered them.
An older man was near the end, dumping meal into a trough. The hogs in that stall were standing on their hind legs, front braced against the wooden stall door, squealing in delight. To the right all the hogs had been fed, they were snorting and pushing into the food troughs eating as if they hadn’t had food in a month. To the left, only two stalls had hogs waiting to eat. Without a speck of patience among them.
Fascinated, Angelica kept pace with Kirk, her hands blocking some of the high-pitched sounds.
Kirk’s grandfather turned and saw them, but didn’t pause in his task of feeding. When the last one had been fed he turned and spoke.
“This Webb Francis’s guest?” he asked.
She dropped her hands now that the noise had ceased. Smiling politely she waited while Kirk made introductions.
“It is. Angelica, this is my grandfather, Hiram Devon. This is Angelica Cannon from New York.”
“Humph. How long you here for?”
She was surprised at the lack of greeting. Everyone else in Smoky Hollow had been friendly.
“Until after the music festival. I heard that you sing.”
“Not any more.”
He turned and walked to the feed bin, hanging the bucket beside it.
“I’m learning more about folk music,” she said. “A song I heard yesterday has me puzzled. I couldn’t understand all the words. Kirk said you might know what they are and what they mean.”
He frowned. His gray hair was covered by a beat-up old felt hat. His bushy iron-gray eyebrows almost met over his nose.
