Finally she nodded. “You won't be happy until you do, so go talk to him. Do try to come up with something less extreme than relieving him of his offending tongue.”

Nathaniel caught Ballentyne's gaze and wondered if Lily realized that he was capable of that, and more.

He said, “Between us I'll wager we can come up with something a sight less messy.”

They found Stiles finishing his own dinner of cabbage and bread, alone at the table. No sign of young Justus Rising, and Nathaniel wasn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand he thought the boy needed to hear what he had to say, and on the other he had the sense it wouldn't do any good. Justus Rising reminded him of a half-witted dog, just sly enough to keep himself fed and quick to use his teeth. The kind that couldn't be taught because he didn't care to learn.

The cabin was dim and smelled strongly of sour clothes and sweat. It struck Nathaniel as odd, given the fact that Stiles was supposed to have such a good sense of smell, but then some men were partial to their own stink.

They went out on the porch to talk, where there was a fine view of the apple orchards. The trees were heavy with green fruit. It was a pretty spot, the orchard, built up out of hard work and dreams: Nicholas Wilde had wanted to come up with the perfect apple, not for pressing, but for eating. The villagers had laughed at him and then learned not to laugh; he had earned their respect over the years. And then Jemima Southern had come along. Nathaniel thought of the day he had gone into the bush to find Nicholas, and then he pushed the pictures away.

On the horizon a good summer storm was working itself up, fists of dark cloud punching closer.

“Thunder before the afternoon is done,” said Stiles. “Hail too.”

Nathaniel started to have his thoughts read so easily, and then he settled his face; he wouldn't let the man spook him so easy.

“Thunder at twilight,” he agreed. “Doesn't bode well.”

Stiles made an agreeable sound in his throat. “Did you two gentlemen come to talk to me about the weather?”

“You know why we're here,” Ballentyne said, not a man to dance around the matter at hand.

Stiles blinked once and again. “I expect I do.”

“Listen then, and listen close,” Nathaniel said. He scratched his jaw thoughtfully while he considered his words.

“You're new here, so let me make something clear you most probably don't know. My father and my grandfather and his people before him were hunting these mountains a hundred years ago and more. We've always been here, and we ain't going nowhere. That's the first thing.”

He paused. There was no reaction at all from Stiles, so he went on.

“We survived every kind of sickness over the years, more wars than I care to think about, settlers coming and going, fortune hunters of every stripe. They've tried to starve us out and burn us out and frighten us away. We're still here. We're staying right here. That's the second thing.”

Ballentyne stood quietly, all his muscles tensed, his eyes alive: ready to move, ready for battle. He had been trained well at Carryck, and Nathaniel was glad to have him along.

“Do go on,” Stiles said.

“Last thing. We protect our own, and we don't tolerate anybody coming after our women and children. I'll admit it's been some years since we had cause to remind folks of that fact, but make no mistake, Mr. Stiles. You'll stop bad-mouthing my daughter or I'll show you just what I mean.”

Stiles crossed his arms on his chest and rocked forward, his head canted sharp to the right as if he were thinking through a difficult puzzle.

“You object to the truth being spoken plain, then.”

Ballentyne moved, just an inch, but Nathaniel held up a hand to stop him.

“Your version of the truth.”

Stiles rocked a little more. “My truth comes from the good book. From the word of God. Your daughter is—”

“I'd advise you to stop just there,” Ballentyne said, stepping up close. “Keep your version of the truth to yourself. And you'll keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll feed it to the dogs.”

Nathaniel had to admire Ballentyne's tone, no bluster in him at all, and no mistaking that he meant every word. Except that Stiles didn't seem overly concerned.

After a moment Stiles said, “Perhaps I did make a mistake. Paradise may not be the God-fearing place I was told it would be.”

There were many things Nathaniel might have said to that, but he wasn't about to bring up the topic of Jemima Southern.

“Get out then. Sell the orchard and get out.”

And he saw, just then, that he had misjudged the man and mistook his game. Something small and satisfied flickered in Stiles's expression, and then was gone, banished. But Nathaniel knew what he was going to say.

“Very well, I am willing to sell you the farm and orchards for four hundred dollars. In silver.”

Ballentyne coughed a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it at all. “Silver,” he echoed.

“In time of war.” Stiles spread his hands out in front of him. “Paper money is less than dependable.”

“You bloody bastard,” Ballentyne said. “You thieving, no-good, backhanded—”

Nathaniel held up a finger to stop him. “That's twice what you paid for this place.”

“Is it?” Stiles rocked on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. “Why, yes, now that you mention it. I believe that's true.”