Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bucky stood in the empty lot, licking snowflakes off his top lip. A mason jar was tucked into the crook of his elbow. There was no porch light. The grimy window to his left was plastered over with newspaper, which stained the snow in front the color of an egg yolk.

He raised his hand and gave three sharp raps.

Heavy boots clanked over wooden floor. The door didn’t open all the way. A thin fella wedged himself into the gap, and looked at Bucky up and down.

“Wait here.”

After a moment, a man in a suit and long coat came striding out. He was perhaps the same height as Bucky, hard to tell with how the coat hung open like a cloak. The furred collar bulked up his shoulders.

“You got something to unload?”

His voice was mild, not-a-care-in-the-world. Bucky touched the brim of his wool cap.

“I got sixty.” He stood straight. It would take a lot more than a slick city cat to make him cower. “The best applejack you ever put a lip on.”

“Now that’s a tall order.” Fur Collar grinned. His cheeks were fleshy like a baby’s. “C’mon in.”

The inside of the roadhouse was toasty. A fire crackled in the stove. Men sat hunched over a table playing cards, coins stacked around their elbows. All of them had their coats on.

Bucky was led straight to the back room. There was a desk, couple of chairs, and a man so tall he had to stoop to stand in the corner. He was in his shirtsleeves, cradling a sawed-off shotgun.

Fur Collar took the jar from Bucky and gave it a shake. He held it up to the light and squinted at the bubbles—beads, as they were known. Quality liquor had beads the size of marbles coming up on top.

Next, he took out a saucer from under the desk and sloshed some liquid into it. Gave it a sniff and a taste.

“Not bad.” Fur Collar smacked his lips loudly. His short, dark hair stood up at the front. “I’ll give you four a gallon.”

Bucky’s heart plummeted. These were the last of his stocks. God knows when the weather would be warm enough to brew another batch. Once he’d given Dum Dum his share, what was left would be pocket change. Not worth the risk, not at all.

“Six.”

Fur Collar barked out a laugh. “Shit, son, you’re getting six if you’re serving it off a girl’s tits!”

“I ain’t selling you rotgut. This here is—”

“The best applejack. I heard ya.” Fur Collar leaned back in his chair. “What, you think it’s an easy drive from here to Manhattan? You think my men were coming along for the scenery?”

Bucky was desperate, yeah. But not desperate enough to chuck his last hand in for nothing.

“Fine, five.”

Fur Collar gestured to the door. “Don’t let the Bureau catch you with a full trunk.”

Bucky gripped both knees for a beat, then stood up.

It was three paces to get out of the office. Another ten took him all the way back to the lot. Bucky put one foot in front of the other, slow and steady.

Snow was coming down hard now. Couldn’t see the fence no more, only evenly spaced bumps of white. With every step it was like his legs were filling with lead. Winter had always been hard. This year it seemed hell-bent on taking the stuffing outta him.

His hand shook on the hood of the Studebaker. All for nothing, this slippery drive, a complete waste. He thought about the stack of bills: two lots of nines for medicine, twenty-eight for the bed, twenty five he still owed the store for grains and malt. All going out, nothing coming in at this time of year.

A spill of light fanned across the blue-tinged snow and caught Bucky’s ankle.

“You drive a hard bargain, country boy.”

Bucky huffed out a misty breath. He slapped the cold metal twice. The sting in his palm kept his knees from buckling.

The orderly let him back in with a grumble, and a hand held out. Bucky dropped a few coins into it. The nurse in charge wasn’t swayed by Bucky’s smiles or go-ons. She didn’t throw him out, though. So he stood in the doorway and watched the white lump that was Steve under the covers.

He might have dozed. Next thing he knew, he’d slid down the wall a few inches. Bucky went outside and scrubbed his face with a handful of snow.

Was it 1919 or 20? A winter just like this one, when he’d last had a sleepless night.

Bucky thought he was dreaming about corn popping when the rapid tapping started. Then light slashed at his close eyelids, waking him up all the way. Someone was banging on the door. The pitter patter of feet soon followed.

He slipped out of the room just as Liz reached the bottom of the stairs, her hair half-tucked into her cardigan. Mother held up an oil lamp in one hand. Her mouth was pulled down at the corners.

Bucky peeped around Liz’s legs, who pushed him back with one arm.

His first thought was that their father was wrestling with a wild thing. But there were no grizzlies in those mountains. Then their mother was stepping out, pulling the dark shape into her arms. Bucky gasped. In between their shoulders he caught a glimpse of a face: a woman’s, pale and slick. There was a hitch in her breathing every child knew as wrong. Bucky leaned further into Liz; he’d never seen an adult cry before.

While his parents tried to get the woman into the house, Liz shooed him up the stairs. His sister’s face took on the grim calm of their mother’s.

Gripping the railing, he listened to the hushed conversation. Ora and Maude huddled next to him, wide-eyed.

They all shrank back as the front door opened again. Bucky ran to the second floor window and pressed his nose to the frosted glass. Three figures stumbled and swayed as they made their way down. He picked out the bulky shape of his father, and Liz’s high boots with hobnails.

Bucky sat at the top of the stairs and waited, until Mom came up to see them back to bed.

He knew Mom didn’t sleep because the yellow line of light glowed under his door all night, making the darkness around him all the more complete.

In the morning, there were biscuits and ham on the table as usual, but Mom didn’t sit down until Dad bowed his head through the door. She gripped his arm for a moment and hugged Liz close, patting her ruddy cheeks, her shoulders. Little by little the usual chatter around breakfast resumed.

It was the Rogers family, Bucky learned. Sarah, the woman from last night, had walked. Could have driven along the creek but that would have taken three times as long.

“A fool thing to do,” his father rumbled. “Coming through the woods by her lonesome.”

Maude and Ora hounded Liz about the son, whose fever had got so bad he’d started convulsing. Must be Buck’s age, Liz pinched her thumb and index finger into a circle. Arms about this thick, you’d think Dad brought the needles for cattle by mistake.

“He okay?” Bucky reached for another biscuit. Now he was hungry.

“Can’t say. His fever broke when we left.” She shook her head. “Swear I saw him turn blue.”

For the week after, Bucky thought about the boy who’d borne his dad and sister away in the dead of night. The boy with a blue face.

When the creek at the foot of the mountain swelled and flowed again, Sarah Rogers came by, her famous sweet potato pie tucked under her arm.

Bucky was disappointed that the boy standing next to her didn’t have a face like a robin’s egg. He was shorter than Bucky by an inch or so, with hair the color of cornbread. He said his name was Steve. Those missing front teeth gave the word a whistling sound.

“Well, Shteve.” Bucky shouldered an old lard bucket. “Wanna come?”

Steve’s mouth fell open. Then he nodded so fast it made Bucky feel dizzy.

None of his sisters was interested in catching conies and squirrels. It got boring, trudging through the undergrowth with only the cicadas for company.

They ran down the hill, arms outstretched to bat away the spindled bushes, gathering speed as they went.

That day, Bucky didn’t feel so bad about coming back empty-handed. Steve’s face fell when they brushed away the leaves and found nothing underneath. Bucky supposed he had to be the one to ruffle Steve’s hair and say better luck next time.

The year 1923 crawled.

First there was Maude’s engagement. Bucky hadn’t really understood when Liz and Ora had married. He missed them, sure, but their absence had eased with time.

When Maude was being courted, Bucky knew. He knew what it meant when men ran their fingers through their hair, or put their hats on just so. When they looked at Maude they saw her dark braids, the glimpses of her collarbones, but not Bucky’s sister. He knew what men talked about around a fire.

And that particular man, with his pale suit and calfskin boots. He wasn’t good enough for Maude.

Bucky told Steve so, haltingly. If he’d told Maude he’d never hear the end of it.

“She’s happy.” Steve shrugged. He still had that look like a plant that was kept in the dark. But he had a way of speaking that got Bucky to see sense.

People said Ora was the prettiest of the Barnes girls. Even now, men slapped their thighs and slurred, damn that face belonged in them magazines, and the women huffed. Maude had their father’s bird-like nose and a long face. But these days when she smiled, eyes followed her.

The house felt empty when it was just him and his parents. Mom dabbed at her eyes when she was making supper. Bucky skulked about the barn and worked up a sweat piling hay.

Then Sarah Rogers died.

Bad lungs, or heart, Bucky wasn’t too clear on the details. She went to the doctor’s twice in as many months. When it got worse, Steve put up a sign at the grill and stayed at home with her.

Bucky went over every week. If nothing else, he could get Sarah to smile, and put some food in Steve. Steve always walked him to the door come nightfall. There, out of Sarah’s earshot, Steve would let out a shuddering breath. Bucky gripped his shoulders; he was no good with words.

One time, Steve went out to run some errand. Sarah beckoned Bucky close and took his hand. Her skin felt papery. There was a sheen of bloat around her face.

She gave Bucky’s fingers a shaky squeeze. Bucky knew what she was trying to say and squeezed back.

The funeral passed in a blur. Steve stood close to him. His young face seemed to have aged overnight. Once the last shovelful of dirt was packed on, Bucky took Steve’s elbow and led him away.

They walked through a copse of birch trees. Bucky stayed a few paces behind him, kept an eye on the way Steve tramped through the bushes. Thorns snagged at his sleeves, his ankles, Steve didn’t duck out of the way.

It was a gentle climb to reach a clearing in the dense thicket. Steve sat down with his legs splayed out. Bucky made sure he wasn’t about to topple off, before reaching into his sack and bringing out a mason jar.

It was the best from the Barnes family still, clear with thick slices of peach inside. Bucky twisted the cap off and took a gulp. The brandy was heady and sweet, warming up his innards before the next breath was out of his lungs.

He held the jar out. Steve didn’t move to take it. Bucky elbowed him and thrust the jar into his hand.

Steve didn’t look like he was tasting anything. His throat bobbed but his face stayed stony. Bucky plucked the brew out of Steve’s grip and took another mouthful. He passed it back, molding his friend’s fingers around the glass and lifting it for him.

When the jar was half empty, Steve let out a noise that made something lurch in Bucky’s chest. Bucky leaned hard into him, almost nudged Steve off the log they were sitting on. At one point, Steve slumped sideways and ended up flat on the ground, one arm thrown over his eyes.

Bucky stayed with him. Couldn’t let him puke now, could he? A silly way to go.

When Bucky offered for Steve to stay with them, Steve shook his head and said his house was closer to the grill.

You gonna run the place by yourself? Bucky boggled. With his sisters gone, his parents needed all the help they could get. Bucky was running ragged as it was.

But he knew straightaway there was no talking Steve out of it. The grill was as much a livelihood as a piece of Sarah Rogers, and all the Rogerses before her. There was no shortage of youngsters who wouldn’t turn down some light work in exchange for a meal. Stocking the pantry and carrying plates was bound to be easier than breaking your back at a sawmill.

Bucky wasn’t happy about Steve’s pick though: Hodge, a man with a broad, mean face and slits for eyes. He wore an army-issue green coat on most days because nothing he could afford was as sturdy. Downed half a quart of white mule a day, easy. The only story on him was he’d almost killed a man in a fit of drunken rage. Since then, he’d never stayed in one place for long.

“Couldn’t find some girl to pour coffee?” Bucky stared hard at Hodge’s back, who was hauling a leg of ham out of the cellar. He got itchy when Steve was around men bigger than him, which was all the time. Steve was a good kid, but he had less sense than God gave a she-goat. Couldn’t keep his head down or his mouth shut.

Steve hummed and hawed. Hodge wasn’t so bad, he said. Kept any customers looking for trouble away. Bucky watched the way Steve ran a rag over the same square of counter back and forth, and knew that wasn’t the whole story.

He pried the reasoning out of Steve in pieces over a week.

They wanted a warm meal this bad, they ain’t got nowhere close to stay. Steve popped a handful of peanuts into his mouth. Then what am I to do when the grill shuts? Leave a girl in here alone? Let her walk home by herself?

You’re a right bleeding heart. Bucky shook his head.

He also knew Steve had a soft spot for men with hard, flat stares and bullet holes. Steve said he’d barely remembered his grandpa—the man had been a limping shadow in the house. It was a different time and a different war, but Bucky understood.

Didn’t mean he was going to stop coming by whenever he could, sticking his head through the door and hollering for Steve.

Corn harvest was as close to a carnival as the town got.

The work began in September. Once ears of corn filled out, they needed to be picked. Sons and daughters and distant relatives came back from mines and factories to help out. It was some sight. Hats and headscarves bobbed among the gold and green, like they were all part of the mountain.

The real party was the shucking. Neighbors and families gathered around big piles of ears, still nestled in their lush green coats. Once you got into the rhythm of stripping the corn husks, you could do it in your sleep. It was boring, repetitive work. So people made the most of it. Played fiddles and mandolins as they threw shucks over their shoulders. In a moment, a great feast would be served to all: potatoes, greens, chicken, homemade pickles, apple cakes stuffed full of walnuts, and pumpkin pies. All the fruits of their year-long labor.

For now, people were jostling and racing to the bottom of the pile, where a single red ear of corn would be hidden.

Bucky groaned when Dum Dum reached out and snatched up the prize. Steve muffled a laugh. Men whistled and wiggled their eyebrows. Whoever found the red ear could kiss a sweetheart of his choosing. And Dum Dum was a married man.

Dum Dum’s ruddy face split into a grin. Standing by the firelight, he was a great, stooped shape with trembling mustache and starburst eyes. Bucky scrunched up his nose. Steve bumped into him lightly.

Come on, there wasn’t a girl here you haven’t kissed.

The hell does that mean? Bucky said, but he was smiling.

Steve wasn’t fond of this sport. Last year it was Bucky, and the girl flew into his arms. The year before it had been one of the Hash twins. A group of young men had gathered around Hash, following him like crows while he’d strutted in a circle. His beady eyes had looked the women up and down.

Now, nobody had known for sure, but there had been rumors about a black girl, one of the Jones’s. Folks wet their lips with whiskey and rolled the tale around in their mouths: Gabe slapped his sister into a table when he found out. It was mighty lucky that the Lord took the mother with the baby, wasn’t it? Just reached down and plucked them from their sodden bed.

The troop of men had crowded around a girl with pale eyes. Her head had dropped so low it had almost touched her chest. Hash had been saying lil darlin’, bending his face real close to the girl. The men had stomped their feet and cheered.

Steve had got up and tried to yank Hash back, getting a bloody nose for his trouble. Then Bucky had jumped in and thrown a punch.

That year, they had pointedly not been invited to the feast. Bucky was forgiven quickly because everyone knew the Barneses; they raised their children right. Steve was called a meddler. If he hadn’t been so slight he’d have gotten a few more beatings.

Steve wasn’t fond of the tradition. But Dum Dum was a good man. He palmed his mustache as the women giggled and shook their heads. Young girls whispered in their small clusters. Steve had no doubt some of them were as disappointed as Bucky.

Martha came out then, two powdery hands braced on her hips. People’s heads swung in her direction because that meant food was ready. Dum Dum gave a delighted shout and dashed over, still holding the red ear aloft. He swooped her into his arms and bent down to give her what must have been a scratchy kiss.

When he straightened up, Martha’s face was the same color as the corn. She pressed the back of her hands to her cheeks, her neck. Men groaned and guffawed, nudging at each other with their dusty hats. Bucky cupped his palms around his mouth and cheered the loudest.

It would be swell, Steve thought, to have someone look at you like that.

A handful of farm boys saw the pine-green Studebaker sail down route 33, the longest paved road in Franklin County. Too slow to be the lawmen, not enough weight in the trunk to be a runner. The driver was a woman. From the way the square hood shuddered and swiveled, she sure as hell ain’t Willie Carter Sharpe, the blockading queen, who could hold a Ford wide open down a pig’s gut.

Soon, Peggy would have to leave her baby at a lot and make the rest of the way on foot. Most of the weedy ruts that stitched the county together had never seen a road grader. Her heart gave a jolt at the thought. Within the sleek walls of the car, she’d caught glimpses of those infamous mountaineers: lounging in front of filling stations; shifting wads of tobacco around in their mouths while she paid for crackers and cheese. Their two-toned faces—white foreheads and leathery, tanned cheeks—were closed off to her. Women in calico shifts looked on coolly as she drove past. Nobody smiled. Nobody started a friendly conversation.

Howard had said that those Appalachians weaned their children off moonshine. The rivers overflowed with liquor; fish floated down stream, senseless with drink. Peggy hadn’t expected to trip over stills from day one, but she’d kept her eyes open for clandestine exchanges of coins and jars. There had been none. In one clumsy attempt to uncover the truth, she’d asked a woman behind the counter if they had something stronger. The lady blew acrid smoke to the side.

We got Coke, coffee, water’s for free.

Peggy had picked up her sandwich and left, forgoing the orange pop she’d put in front of her.

It might have been a wasted trip after all. Peggy bit her lip and coaxed the speedometer over thirty.

Hey, Steve, you done shining the floor?

Bucky’s voice budged in through the door, bouncing off the walls. The grill was closed for the day. Hodge had left at noon. Steve checked the stove once more and rushed out onto the curb.

Bucky was hanging out of the window, talking to Louise. Steve knew it was Louise because he could see the auburn hair peeping out from beneath a white cap. Hair that she kept tucking back behind her ear. Steve stomped his feet before climbing in, partly to ward off the chill, partly so that Bucky wouldn’t moan about mud in the footwell. His friend liked to go for a drive once he was done with farm chores. Liked it even better if there was a girl gazing out of the window, her headscarf forgotten on the seat between them.

Sure is a funny way of courtin’, Barnes. Smells like toe rot in here.

Bucky had smacked him upside the head. Oh yeah? Never had no complaints. These days Bucky wore his hair parted on the side, slick with lemon-scented pomade.

They parked the truck at Bucky’s and stuffed a sack full of leftovers. It was going to be a long night. Bucky shouldered the old burlap and started the climb. Steve lagged behind, staying a few paces to the side so they wouldn’t make a distinct trail. The ground was hard with frost. Spindled bushes tugged at their clothes. Steve missed the leaves and warm weather already. It always got cold too quickly for his liking.

They ducked under an exposed rock face. A flicker of light appeared in the distance. Bucky stuck a finger in his mouth and whistled, a series of piercing sounds; nobody was crazy enough to creep up on a still at night.

Dum Dum sat in front of a crackling fire, a small mountain of wrappers and empty cans at his feet. He lifted his head up. A set of miraculously white teeth flashed under a scuffed bowler hat.

Bucky grunted in greeting and kicked his ankle. Dum Dum was older than them by about six years. He was what men called a cut-up, joked with youngsters enough they never treated him like he was their elder. Always ready to swing a kid onto his massive shoulders at the fair. When Dum Dum stretched up to clap Steve on the back, he could feel his lungs loosening in their perch, and choked back a cough.

The still had been in the Barnes family for decades. You couldn’t find purer, sweeter water anywhere in the Blue Ridges. It had been luck for Stiller Bill, Bucky’s great grandfather, to stumble upon Snow Creek. And this was where he’d built his still out of heavy-gauge copper. Using the fresh water to mix up the meal and to cool down the condenser coil, a one-stop operation. Although the recipe had changed through the years, the still had stayed at the same spot, hidden by lush greens in the summer. Even in late fall it was hard to spot unless you knew the way.

Dum Dum had a good deal with Falsworth, a shortish fella with a filthy hat hanging off his head, whose mill sat on the other side of the still camp. The three of them hauled their harvest by truck to Falsworth’s. By the end of the week they’d have enough cornmeal for 120 gallons of whiskey. Bucky and Steve then drove to the nearby filling stations and restaurants, hiding the jars under a bushel of peaches. Someone wanted a few crates of applejack for his daughter’s wedding, he could drop the word and pick them up a day later at Steve’s grill. Less money was made this way, but they didn’t have to cross state lines and draw the attention of sheriffs. They were turning their own produce into something their fellow countrymen needed to get some shuteye, to ease the pain of watching their children go barefoot. Their ancestors had done it, so would their sons. The law had no say in that.

Bucky had wanted to split the profit three ways. Steve fought him tooth and nail; the still belonged to Bucky’s family, and didn’t his folks deserve a few lie-ins now they weren’t getting any younger? In the end, Bucky and Dum Dum split the lion's share. It was Steve’s way or he’d have nothing to do with it. Bucky just had to keep dragging him to his parents’ so they could fatten him up on hoecake and ham.

Dum Dum had done mixing the cornmeal into mash during the day. A lumpy layer of fermentation bobbed just beneath the surface, smelling sickly sweet. Bucky dipped his finger below the snowy foam and smacked his lips to taste the liquid. It was ready. Together they tipped the mash into the copper belly of the still. Dum Dum was more than ready to head home to Martha and the kids. It was Steve and Bucky’s turn to watch the fire, make sure the mash was kept warm throughout the night but never scorched.

Steve sat with his back against the hot bricks that banked the fire tight around the still. Bucky had an inkling that Steve didn’t keep that house of his as warm as he should. Making a run was hard work. A nap at the wrong moment could ruin a whole batch, or worse. If the mash over-boiled, the solids could rise up into the cap, which sealed the still at the top, and block it. The whole thing would then turn into a pressure bomb, a stiller’s worst nightmare. Yet the circles under Steve’s eyes always got paler when they were cooped up here for long nights. Bucky joked about Steve hogging the fire. His thin body soaked up the warmth and looked almost flushed with health.

In between stirring the mash and tending the fire, they talked a little, cooked bacon and ate it straight out of the skillet with their fingers. Laid down twigs for the board and played games of fox and geese with corn kernels. Often Steve would bring his drawing book—give the guy a pencil stub and he’d forget the world.

Steve had been obsessed with cars for the longest time. Bucky was sure he’d drawn everything with wheels: Pierce-Arrow coupe, Model T, Wash Victoria Six and Packards. Then he’d switched to fields. ’Bout a year ago he’d turned his attention to people. Had done a real nice one for Bucky’s mom, on fresh blank paper too. She had it pressed flat in a big book because she couldn’t find a good enough spot to pin it up.

Bucky’d wanted a picture of himself with the first Ford that was his. Had combed his hair and shined his boots for the occasion. When he’d set one foot on the front bumper and rested his elbow on the hood, Steve had laughed so hard he wheezed.

Quit braying like a mule. Bucky had rolled his shoulders back. He’d seen men posing with their cars in the papers, looking tough as nails. But he couldn’t get a good frown going with Steve pointing, one hand over his belly, mouth wide with silent laughter.

Steve did draw him, though. Not with the truck but when Bucky was whittling away on a piece of wood for Liz’s boy, who didn’t have a name yet. Because eight months ago the couple had buried little Maggie. If you didn’t give Death something to whisper, his grip would be slippery.

The picture wasn’t something Bucky would show to people. The guy on the page looked like Bucky, but didn’t. He couldn’t see the soft set of his mouth or the careful cup of his hands that Steve saw. Bucky knew he was the man with a smirk and a reputation that made mothers send their daughters to the back of the store. He was no shirker, either. Rose before dawn and worked till supper: slopping hogs, haying, plowing, taking truckfuls of produce up and down South Virginia. Men drank and played cards with him, but no one messed with the youngest Barnes.

“You coming to Floyd’s this Friday?” Bucky asked around a mouthful of biscuit. He knew what he was going to hear. No matter, someone had to try and get the guy out of the house.

Steve shook his head.

“Come on. I heard the North Caroline Ramblers might be there, play a reel or two.”

“And you’ll dance till your shoes wear through. Tell me something new.”

“Aw hell.” Bucky never got Steve’s lack of interest. He was all about waiting for the right girl. Trouble was, he wasn’t looking. The right girl ain’t gonna fall through the roof one day. Steve didn’t even glance at girls’ pale calves when the weather got warm. The bawdy tales men boasted of got a blush out of him, nothing more. Girls liked Steve, too. Thought he was sweet, the type they could have a chat with and wouldn’t set the tongues wagging. If Bucky had a little sister, Mom would have planned the wedding already.

In the cities, they said, men and women danced close together under a blue light. Their knees moved and jiggled just so. Bucky couldn’t imagine what it was like. Here, they cleared out the store after sundown, pushed the furniture up against the wall. The first line of Money Musk and people shuffled into lines. A sly look over dusty hats, a brush of fingers, and it slammed into Bucky sure as a mouthful of brandy. A woman who might not catch his eye during the day could churn his blood at Floyd’s: the music, the buzzing, the loosening of her gesture, they worked together as a whole. He wished he could make Steve see. Whenever Bucky pushed too far, Steve always told him to leave it off. Bucky hated it when Steve used that tone on him. Didn’t he know Bucky wanted the best for him?

“Don’t have to dance. Just come for the tune.” Bucky grinned. “The mandolin player’s cute.”

“See, the tune went in your ear and leaked outta the other.”

“Hey, I’m plenty musical.” Bucky jumped to his feet and kicked his heels. “Hey, ho, diddle-um day. So many pretty girls I can’t count ’em. Hey ho, diddle-em day!”

Truth being told, he couldn’t sing if someone held a gun to his head. Worth it, though, to watch Steve edge away from him, hands over his ears.

A hollow knocking sound made them both jump; the steam was pushing its way up the cap and down the tubing. They went to crouch in front of the condenser coil, a square-sided metal can at the ready.

The first stream of liquid came out with bits of husk before it ran clear. It was like watching a cattle birthing, a miraculous thing. Bucky met Steve’s eyes over the snout of the can. Their grins were splintered by firelight. It was a solid run, which meant they’d have money to pay back the store that had let them buy on credit. A new pair of boots before the first snowfall.

The place didn’t have any sign at the front. Peggy’s nose told her it must have been a diner. She parked the car at an angle against the porch. Pulled her scarf loose as she stepped in.

No one was at the stove, but the smell of egg and grease hung heavy in the air. The floor and tables were clean. What surprised her was the small touches: the oiled tablecloth, the curtains which had been patched up with mismatched squares of fabric. In a clay pot by the window sat a bunch of purple and white flowers.

A big man ducked through the back door, wiping his hands on a rag. His hair was shorn close to the scalp. He paused in his track when he spotted Peggy. Sucked one side of his cheeks in but didn’t say anything.

Peggy didn’t like the look in his eyes. Even though men had been looking at her like that ever since she’d started to wear straps across the arch of her feet and put waves in her hair. Men looked at her on Fifth Avenue. Men would look at her here.

She didn’t drop her gaze when she ordered some coffee.

Over the past few months she’d got used to the people’s silence; not so much hostility as a force of habit to keep their heads down and get to work. Everything they needed came from the land, and that was what held their lasting affection and few words. She’d listened to men obsessing over the weather as they sat around a radio. My corn’s laid over by that wind, and I don’t know if it will ever stand up again. Gotta need some rain to plant my ‘bacca. ‘Bacca, that was what they called tobacco, caressed the word like it was their women. She’d tasted fresh spring water. A withered old man had drawn it for her as his son fixed her up with some fuel. The water had been cool, sweet, with an almost tart aftertaste, better than any sticky soda. She’d sat with farm hands as they wolfed down their lunch of cold pork, their faces set in a permanent grimace.

As Peggy was finishing the last few dregs, a gangly youngster came into the room, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The man’s kid brother, no doubt. Then his face pulled free from the glare of sunlight and Peggy realized he couldn’t have been much younger than her.

He startled a little, color rising. His eyes didn’t dip below the collar of her blouse. Peggy let a smile tug at the corners of her mouth as she nodded back.

“Passing through?” He had a tall man’s voice that rang out clear.

“Staying for a while, actually.” Peggy thought she might as well ask. “Is there a boardinghouse close by?”

“Sure, two-story house at the end of this road, can’t miss it.” He glanced at her empty cup, got up and poured a refill.

Steve watched the woman from yesterday, Peggy, walk in. She was clutching a stack of papers and a battered book. He’d never seen a hat like that—sat close on the head, with a short brim that hugged her cheekbones. Or a coat that wasn’t buttoned, but done up with a long belt.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “The dresser in my room is tiny, and it’s killing my back.”

Steve poured her a coffee and cracked eggs on the grill. She sat down and spread her things onto the table. Steve wished she’d sat closer to the window, where the lighting was better. But the glare would be in her eye.

Was she writing a letter to a concerned sister, explaining what she was doing in a place like this? Steve eyed the tip of her pen, which flew over the pages. Wherever she came from, he was sure it had flat, wide roads for her to wear that coat and not worry about ruining it.

A little after noon, Steve heard the familiar crunch of gravel under tires. It was mighty early for Bucky to show up, he thought.

The man who stepped through the door had a mustache like Dum Dum’s, and a leather jacket that was a sight more pricey.

“Peg.” He sounded relieved. Striding over, he bent down to kiss her on the cheek. The guy straightened up, looked at Peggy, and said they needed to get her back this minute, come on, he knew just the place for some decent fong-due.

“Howard.” She smiled. “I’m fine, honest.”

They could be siblings. Steve looked from one to the other; the same dark hair and sharp eyes. The way they sat, not hunched over or slouching.

“I’m not buying you lunch,” Peggy said with a straight face. “You’ll talk my ears off if I let you stay.”

“Phillips certainly did that to me.” He huffed. “God knows why. If the old dragon can’t wrangle you out of it, why should I?”

“Don’t.”

“Madness.” Howard tapped out two cigarettes and offered her one. “And that’s coming from me.”

“We’ve talked about this, How.”

“No, you’ve talked about this. Shouted, in fact.” Howard’s mustache fanned out when he grinned. “Half the corridor had their ears pressed to the door.”

“That bad, huh?”

Howard leaned back, tilting on the back legs of his chair. “I seem to recall the words simpering, gossip and vacuous. None of which sat well with Phillips.”

She colored slightly. “I might have stepped over a line.”

“Phillips will get over it. He always does when it comes to you.” Howard righted his chair. “But the post won’t stay open forever, Pegs.”

She finally lit the cigarette. When she turned her face towards the window, Steve reached for the back of a receipt. There was something about the way she held the white stick, the tilt of her chin, that he needed to put to paper.

“It’s not a nervous breakdown.” She turned back to face him. “I’m done with writing up who wears what to whose party.”

“I worry about you. A woman, here by yourself.”

There was a hard edge to Peggy’s teasing tone. “If I run into grief, you’ll be my first call.”

Howard held both hands up.

Steve bit his tongue for a good half an hour after Howard had left. Worse than a bored cat, Bucky had said that about him.

“You a reporter?” Couldn’t keep the wonder out of his voice if he’d tried. Steve had gone to seventh grade, all they had here. He knew there were men behind those printed words in the papers. But that was who they were: men. Once in a while one might even pass through. Steve could tell them apart because of the blackened fingertips. Smoked roll-ups like the rest of them but he’d take his meals aside. Wiped the fork Steve laid in front of him on a shirt tail.

“I was. Not anymore.” Peggy capped her pen. “As you’ve probably gathered.”

“So, what you gonna do?”

“Finish my book.”

“What’s it about?”

She didn’t answer straight away. She folded her hands together in front of her. “Moonshine.”

Steve blinked. “Moonshine?”

This county was getting to her, for sure. The same shifty-eyed hush she’d encountered many times before was making her drop her own voice. “Liquor making.”

The change was remarkable. Steve went still. The rare openness of his face was wiped clean. Peggy felt the familiar frustration. She’d met her characters, heard their voices, smelt the end-of-day sweat on them. Like a car without an engine, they sat in her notes, unmoving. These very hills seemed to breed illegal money as well as eyes that faced only outwards, no way in.

“Steve.” She had to try. This was the longest conversation she’d had with a local. “I’m no federal. I’m not looking to get anyone into trouble.”

His shoulders didn’t come down straight away. He wasn’t making eye contact either. At least he hadn’t shown Peggy the door.

“Why?” The words came out in a rush like they got away from him before he could stop them. “Their business ’s their own.”

“Because people read some comic strips and think they know all about…” Peggy chose her next word carefully, “…mountaineers. They say you are too lazy to make an honest living—”

“Ain’t like that.” He seemed to have grown three inches with indignation.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Steve.”

He nodded, that blue fire banked for now. But he didn’t continue the conversation.

“So that’s who you’ve been mooning over!”

Steve dropped his head in his hands. Bucky had been bursting to say something the moment he’d walked in, and Peggy had left later than usual. Their eyes had met and Steve knew Bucky had recognized her.

“Got me all worried, Rogers.” Bucky’s face was turning into a jack-O’-lantern. “Was about to get you a witch doctor. Say some woman got her hooks in ya.”

Steve glared at him. He knew he shouldn’t have let Bucky get his paws on those sketches.

“Be worth it, though. Prettiest piece I ever seen.”

“Don’t talk ’bout Peggy like that.”

Bucky swung himself onto the counter. “Peggy, huh? Go on.”

Bucky had always told Steve everything: the girls he danced with, the ones who’d let him drive them home, the ones he kissed, a few he’d done more with. And it wasn’t like that with Peggy. Steve liked that she’d walked straight back in the next day, head held high. He liked that she talked to him and listened. He didn’t know what would be worse—Bucky laughing at him, or Bucky charming her away easy as snapping his fingers to a tune.

Bucky ruffled his hair. “Awww, little Steven all grown.”

Steve didn’t want to deal with Bucky’s teasing right now. “Bottle it.” He gave Bucky a shove and he almost fell off. Steve felt a stab of guilt at Bucky’s wide eyes.

“Talk to her, you goon.” Bucky righted himself.

“We talk.”

“Not about things that matter.”

“Why do you…” Steve bit his lip. He didn’t have a golden tongue like Bucky, sure. But for the longest time he’d thought when the right woman showed, he’d finally shake off the shyness and do something: make her laugh, hold her hands, take her for a spin to ‘Turkey in the Straw’.

You just know, he’d always been told. But how? He’d never grown to be a proper man with broad shoulders and thickly veined arms. He’d never learned to like the taste of liquor, or tobacco. He was tired of missing a step when everyone else rolled on.

Peggy woke up with a line in her head. It chased her out of bed, sending her groping for a pen.

In the city, he’d be an aesthete. She paused and wrote ‘Bucky Barnes’ in the margin, circled it. Had eyes for pretty things, pretty girls. Polo playing during the day and sneaking off to the Cotton Club at night.

She let the pen roll away with a sigh. That would do for now. The way Steve talked about Bucky, you’d honestly think the guy had six arms and stood a head taller than everyone else. It had been a surprise to bump into the man himself at the general store. It was peculiar, to know him without really knowing him. Bucky had smiled and greeted her, somewhat cautiously, which differed from Steve’s description of a terrible flirt. Speaking of whom…

Well, Steven Rogers, she thought to herself as she hunted around for her shoes, carelessly kicked away once she was indoors. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?

She walked into the grill with what she imagined to be her bloodhound smile, as Howard had put it. “Bucky’s been telling me all about you, Steve.”

He nearly dropped the dishrag. Looked at anywhere but her face. “Shoulda kept his big mouth shut.”

Peggy held her hand out. “May I have a look?”

Steve’s jaw dropped. Peggy wondered what he thought Bucky’d said. “Don’t worry. He’s full of praises for your artistic talent.”

He blushed easily. Peggy found it rather endearing. Steve wrung the rag for another minute before he gave in, and retrieved a thick stack of paper from under the counter.

The pages were hand-sewn together, cut from old wrappings and posters. On one side there was Granger Rough Cut Tobacco, Mineraltone Hogs, Hay’s Medicinal Powder. On the other sat dozens of pencil sketches, so closely packed they overlapped and charged up the margins. The very first one was a scene of three women lounging on a river bank. Their faces were turned away. Peggy’s eyes were immediately drawn to the one sitting closest to the viewer. Her bare arms were well-muscled from hard labor. Her work clothes were shapeless. The only feminine feature was her right foot, dipping into the cool stream as she held a boot in one hand. The contrast between the daintily placed ankle, the chunky shoe, and the rest of her was startling. Who was she? Did she have anyone who’d work that shoe off at the end of the day, and cradle the tender part of her?

Peggy drew a sharp breath. “This is…” She kept losing her thread of thought and had to grapple for it. “Marvelous, really. Quite brilliant.”

Lifting her head, she gave Steve a reassuring smile, who was trying his best not to fidget.

Peggy paused at a sketch of herself, hunched over a table. She had a habit of twisting her back at an awkward angle as she scribbled. Mummy said she could tell how long Peggy had been sitting at the same spot by the crooked line of her shoulders. Looking at it now, she winced in sympathy.

Unsurprisingly, Bucky was the next subject. He was leaning back against a fence. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. It was easier to judge the striking likeness when she wasn’t looking at her own face: the dip on his chin, the pout his naturally down-turned mouth lent him, the deep set of those eyes. Lazy satisfaction was written in the slump of his spine, of a day’s work coming to an end, and the night holding some mischief ahead.

“Have you tried to get those published?” It was a crying shame to leave them to gather dust in a drawer.

Steve scratched the side of his nose. “Once or twice. The papers never got back to me.”

Peggy could see why. It was too sentimental for the Roanoke Times. Besides, no town paper would sacrifice half a spread for something of little practical use.

A crying shame indeed.

If she was still in her little apartment, Peggy would be sunning herself in this gorgeous weather. She’d been wearing a cardigan out for months now. Summer seemed to have arrived at the tail of Easter and decided to stay.

Here, faces darkened when the radio announced another week of sunshine. Women crouched by water pumps for a good five minutes before a trickle came out. Children ran home with shirtfuls of trout because the river had dried to a puddle. Cattle came back later and later every day because they had to go further to get a taste of green shoots. Bucky had lost that easy grin whenever he dropped by. He brought Steve baskets of vegetables because Steve’s own patch had shriveled in the heat.

One day, Peggy came into the grill to find Hodge hovering out front. His great bulk seemed to have been hollowed out, rocking back and forth as he talked to Steve.

Peggy had her notes open, her pen poised mid-air.

“Sorry to do this, Ro…Steve.”

“No, no, it’s a good thing.” Steve’s voice was falsely bright. “You get to be closer to Rose, right?”

“Yeah.”

Peggy strained her ears during the long pause.

“You know what, take a case, Hodge. Least I can do.”

Hodge’s voice got fainter, as if he was backing away. “Naw, naw, Steve, you need—”

“It’s a wedding gift. Take it.”

Peggy watched Steve come back in. He went behind the counter, wiped everything down and rearranged all the pots and pans. His eyes were downcast.

She had no words to offer him. Not unless she proved she’d been eavesdropping.

When he finally sat down and let out a long breath, Peggy was worried his chest might collapse on itself. Her hand shook with how hard she was gripping the pen.

“Steve?”

The look in his eyes was so far off, she wasn’t sure he was seeing her. “Do you know how much the warehouses pay us?”

She shook her head.

“Forty cents for a bushel of wheat. One eighth the price when my Ma was alive.”

Later, Peggy would string words together to re-trace that particular expression, the pale, wavering light in his eyes. Now she only wanted to reach over, to take his hand and say, you don’t have to smile, oh Steve.

“Twenty bushels of corn would get you ten bucks, if you’re lucky.” His gaze darted left and right before it finally settled on her. “Turned into liquor, it would make seventy.”

It was the first time anyone had said it out aloud. It was her breakthrough moment. She felt like she was hoisting a Tommy gun, sweeping words into a sack and yelling for more.

“Put that in your book, Peggy.” He stood and turned away. “It’s why we do it.”

By the time Peggy started to read Steve snippets of what she’d written, the air was golden and crisp. The crops planted in July had flourished on sweat and prayers. The corn was fat, tipped with silk tassels like her mother’s beaded dress. Bucky was putting pomade in his hair again, much to her and Steve’s amusement.

The good mood was in the off-tune just as long as I am tall that drifted up to her open window; the broad strides when people came in and out of the grill. How’s about a slice of that pie, Rogers? Don’t mind if I do! Peggy gladly joined in the corn-shucking, ditched her dress for a pair of corduroy knickers. Steve showed her how to peel away the tough outer leaves, grab the tassels and yank the last layer down to the bottom, before he snapped the whole thing off at the base. She was clumsy at first; even the yapping children easily out-paced her. Next to them, Bucky whistled and yelled something about a prize.

“What prize?”

Steve mumbled, “You’ll see.”

It was hard to recall the gloom that had hung over the county. Even though the general store had rows of empty shelves. For now they were united in celebration of a fruitful harvest. Steve spoke wistfully of his ma’s pumpkin pie, then rushed to reassure her that Mrs Barnes’ was just as good.

Bucky whooped when he closed his fingers around the red ear. He leaped to his feet. Choruses of yeah, yeah, go on, swelled up.

He turned on the same spot, caught the eyes of the girls and smiled big for those who blushed. Bucky liked the shy ones, liked coaxing them out. Glancing back, he winked at Steve. Steve was wearing the same dumb face he always wore: eyebrows knotted but his mouth was twitching up at the corners. Half the fun of acting up was to see that face.

His eyes fell on Louise. She wasn’t wearing a headscarf. Her long hair came to her waist. They’d talked a couple times. Bucky’d always thought she was real pretty. It never went further than that. Her daddy was a mean shot.

Well, why not?

He strode towards where she was sitting. Puffed up his chest and ran a hand through his hair. Louise dropped her eyes, then glanced up again. Her hands went to the first button on her blouse. Bucky came to a stop in the circle of her shadow and held a hand out.

The music and the shouting was sending wings scuttling into the air. Bucky waited. It was better to let them come to you. Girls were flighty, easily spooked. He waited and kept up the smile, wriggled his eyebrows. Finally, Louise climbed to her feet. Her eyes flickered between Bucky’s eyes and his mouth.

He lifted her face with a finger, and ducked down for a peck. Her mouth was soft, sticky with molasses. There was a scent of baked grass and honeysuckle. He wasn’t sure if it was some soap she used. Would have to tell Steve about it later.

Steve. Bucky chanced a look around. Gotta make sure Steve was paying attention. How could Bucky tell him about Louise if—

It took him a while because Steve had his face turned to the side. Bucky followed his line of sight and saw he was looking at Peggy.

Bucky had never seen that look on Steve’s face before: soft, a little pinched around the eyes, like he was getting gut cramps when Bucky knew he’d been fine all day.

Louise still had her eyes shut. Bucky gripped her around the waist and kissed her again, harder. The shocked noise she made landed on his tongue. He swallowed it as if it was a lump of sugar. But his stomach quivered, couldn’t take it.

Steve watched how Bucky lifted Louise’s face with a chuck under the chin. They stood so close it wouldn’t take much for them to meet everywhere—knees and thighs and chests and mouths.

Bucky pressed his lips over hers and pulled back, grinning from ear to ear. Louise ducked her head. They looked a picture: young love, turtle doves.

He turned to look at Peggy, who was watching the whole scene with frank curiosity. Steve knew this was going to make its way into her grand book. Her profile was striking against the dark, rolling hills. Steve would bet it would look just as so against the Hudson River, or Central Park. This was the right girl for him, this one here: smart, honest, a face he could draw for hours. Can’t-help-lovin’ girl.

Bucky was kissing Louise for real now: hands tight around her slim waist, almost bending her in half like he wanted to crawl inside of her.

It happened to him all the time. He’d been working on a sketch for so long, the lines were slipping away from him. He had to put the whole thing away, feeling cross as two sticks. Then, without the least bit of warning, weeks or even months later, he’d be rushing to get the pages out, his pencil already flying. The rest of the picture was there the whole time, just waiting to come to him.

Steve couldn’t see himself kissing Peggy like that.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Cold dread pressed in around him. And for once he couldn’t fling himself against the hurt and make it back away.

The mouth he could see himself kissing—aw, just like that—wasn’t touched by rouge. Wasn’t soft or sweet-smelling. It had droopy corners, giving the face a sulky pout.

Steve had no appetite at the feast. Bucky sat by Louise’s side the whole night, laughing big enough to show his back teeth. He didn’t look over towards Steve once.

Bucky was furious, all right. He’d done tried finding Steve the right girl, tried for years. What did Steve do? Went and got himself heartsick over a citified lady. A fine lady, but not one to stand over a grill and flip burgers.

Steve started to act careful around Peggy, too. Tiptoed and wouldn’t look at her in the eye, when Bucky had never known him to be timid when it came to what he wanted.

Worst thing was he didn’t draw her no more. Hadn’t seen him slouched over his picture book since. That was some voodoo right there.

If Peggy was any other girl, Bucky would have talked to her. Laid all the cards on the table and made her see Steve was a good match. But Peggy already knew Steve. Treated him with more respect than any girl had done. Asking to keep a few of Steve’s pictures wasn’t the same as wanting to stay, though.

So he talked to Steve instead. When they were both nodding to the rhythmic knocking the still made.

“It ain’t wrong, you know.”

Steve stared back with his mouth open. His face flushed bright red then all the color went, so fast Bucky reached out to steady him.

“…Bucky.” His breath came out short and fast. Bucky rubbed his back.

“I know you’re sweet on her. Ain’t a crime.”

The next breath stuttered and didn’t go back in. Bucky hit him on the back with the heel of his hand.

“Who are you…?”

“Peggy.” Bucky tsked. “What? I’ve got eyes.”

A laugh see-sawed out of Steve’s chest. He flopped down to lie on his back. His face looked thinner. Running the grill by himself was hard. “Yeah.”

Bucky tramped down the flare of irritation. “Not like you to do nothing.”

Steve flung an arm over his eyes. A bad sign if Bucky ever saw one. “It’s not like that, Buck.”

Bucky yanked his arm away and put his face close to Steve’s. “Just can’t make things easy for yourself, huh? Gotta sit here and run circles in your head.”

Steve looked at him for so long, Bucky started to worry he’d knocked something loose. His eyes turned into slits like he was about to do something ballsy. Bucky found himself breathing just as fast. His heart slammed against his ribs for no reason. Then the moment passed. Bucky let go and Steve stayed put. His eyes were shut tight, lines showed at the corners.

Steve’s mood must have been getting to him, never used to be so hair-trigger.

Steve had thought he couldn’t keep anything from Bucky. Turned out he managed just fine. It didn’t change how his days went. Every morning, before the sky turned pale around the edges, he walked from his house to the grill. Then he washed dishes, swept the floor, fried eggs and bacon, and sliced sandwiches. Now winter was here, he closed early. Folks stayed holed up in their houses.

If anything, he felt more cut up about Peggy. Cringed at himself for having thought about her like that at all. Peggy was a friend. She wasn’t a mirror to be held up and check himself in.

Bucky had been busy plowing that narrow stretch of unused land for his parents, getting it ready for winter rye, which meant he showed at the grill less. Steve couldn’t say he wasn’t glad. Bucky was a whole lotta things to Steve. He was the one who’d taught Steve how to sight down the barrel of a rifle; who’d shared the first of the buckwheat honey with him. Didn’t matter that now Steve saw his bare throat and wondered, just for a moment, what it was like to touch him there. If he pressed his mouth to the dip between Bucky’s collarbones, what would it taste like? Would Bucky laugh or shove him away? His mind drew blank on that. When he came back to himself, he realized he’d missed most of what Bucky’d been saying.

At night, he dreamed about solid weight pressing him down; a rough hand around his wrist; shoulders brown as dried bottom leaves. Steve woke up stiff and exhausted. The sheets clung to him. Sometimes he laid there, too troubled to close his eyes. Sometimes he got up and pumped out icy water from the well. Scrubbed his body raw with lye soap.

Nothing licked a Rogers, his grandpop used to say. Like hell Steve would break the family motto.

Something was stewing inside Bucky, Peggy concluded. Oh, he was perfectly polite with her, said hello and goodday. But she’d be a fool to miss the way he yanked the chairs and banged the door to the grill louder than usual. He smiled with his teeth now. Did Steve tell him that she knew they were making? Peggy did ask if she could visit the still camp. Steve shook his head, not for me to say.

No, she caught the tail end of a frown—quickly smoothed over when he met her eyes—and told herself it felt far more personal.

“Bucky,” she called out as she snatched up her mail from the postman.

He paused by the curb. “Ma’am.”

She watched his face closely. “Ma’am? What happened to ‘Peggy’?”

He had the grace to blush and mumble her name.

“Walk with me.” She hefted the parcel up. “If you’re not busy.”

Bucky dragged his feet alongside her. Peggy had often used silence as a tactic; people rushed in to fill it, quicker if they had secrets. She waited until they reached the boardinghouse. The raised front porch allowed her to look at him in the eye.

“Is everything all right, Bucky?”

“Steve…” he cleared his throat. Blue eyes strayed a little to her right. A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Thinks the world of you, you know?”

He looked like a child who was relenting his grip on a favorite toy.

“And I him.”

Bucky rocked back on his heels. Then he set his jaw tight and nodded.

“As I’m sure—” Peggy didn’t pretend not to know his meaning. She was the one on the receiving end of Steve’s attention, and it felt nothing like what Bucky thought. “—so do you. Steve’s a good man.”

That finally got him to look at her. Bucky opened his mouth, grimaced and shut it again. He touched his hat and turned heel.

They were close. Grew up together, going by Steve’s tales. Steve didn’t have any living relatives left. Bucky and the grill were all he had. It was something worth bearing in mind, Peggy thought as she put the parcel down and unfolded the telegram first.

Steve took out the sketchbook from under his pillow. He was supposed to have an early night, sleep off the tickling in his throat. His stuffy nose was making him pant out of his mouth like a dog. Not even two steaming mugs of tea had helped. Steve thought of the bottle of cod liver oil Bucky’d mail-ordered. It fixed him right up last winter, perhaps he should take a spoonful tomorrow.

He got the stove going and drew close to the warmth. The last page had a roughly mapped-out back: the shoulders were crisscrossed outlines, the head a circle. But he’d drawn Bucky enough to know it was him. Steve sighed and turned the page over—Peggy’s face stared out at him, bold, unsmiling. Steve was happy with it, except…

There, in the bottom right corner, a pair of hands were curled around some playing cards. The knuckles were scabbed over. A black thumbnail when a hammer had missed the nail.

Steve almost ripped the paper as he flipped it over again.

Every couple of sketches, there was a piece of Bucky, doodled into the margin or taking up the whole space. Steve muttered a curse and struggled out of the nest of quilt.

His old pictures were stacked neatly in a chest. He picked up the one on top and propped it up open over his knees.

He lost his nerve half way through the third book. It was the same: Bucky scattered all over the yellowing paper like crumbs. Was it then? Was it there, that Steve had started to take more than his fair share?

Bucky was getting hitched, if not with Louise then some other pretty girl. Then what? A year, two years, Barnes Jr would be put into the crook of Steve’s elbow, a godson or a goddaughter with Bucky’s dark hair and the bluest eyes in the county, and Steve would love them just as he—

Steve put the book back with shaky hands and slammed the lid shut. He sat on the cold ground and wished, a little savagely, that this body would get sick instead of just the head.

He was tired all the time, that was no news. Winter did that to him. Steve felt like a bruised peach when he rolled out of bed in the morning, didn’t get any better as the day went. Even Peggy picked up on it. Asked if he should call it a day and go home.

A day off was better than toppling head-first into a hot pan, Steve reckoned.

Steve hated leaving the fire going. But his teeth were clattering under all the blankets. He boiled some water again and tried to breathe in the steam. It loosened his throat enough for him to doze off.

—someone was shouting his name. Steve looked down. The flesh on his hands was unravelling like a spool of yarn, rolling away from him. He would have made chase but his legs were turning into ribbons, too—

The shouting got louder, more urgent.

He put one foot to the floor, and his whole body just followed and stayed down.

Peggy was woken up by a yell.

“Hey, where you going?”

Footsteps pattered down to her door. She was already sitting up when a fist slammed into the wood.

She grabbed for her coat to put over her dressing gown, and eased the door open. She certainly wasn’t expecting to see Bucky trying to shake off Thompson, the owner’s son, and giving him a serious time.

Bucky whipped around at the creak of the hinge. Peggy was shocked to see how disheveled he looked.

Words came out jumbled when he opened his mouth. Peggy only caught Steve, hospital and bad. She pulled the coat tighter around herself and came out.

“Tell me on the way.”

The doctor who greeted them had a kindly face and wisps of white hair. Important looking. Pneumonia, he said. Have to keep him here for a while.

Bucky’s knees buckled. Peggy and the doctor caught him under the arms. He knew a few who’d gone that way, got hotter and hotter and babbled non-sense until their heart gave out. Steve was already…Steve got through winters like a young shoot got through drought, always tipping, tipping on the edge.

The doctor was saying he was a visiting…something, came all the way from Boston. They had a new drug they could try on Steve. Bucky felt his jaw move, yeah, new drug, try, let’s try, please.

They put Steve in a single ward, until they finished all the tests at least. Bucky was allowed to have a look through the round window because he wouldn’t leave the doctors and nurses alone.

Steve was a mop of yellow hair on a pillow. Not moving, no matter how hard Bucky stared. He hadn’t gotten this bad since that first winter.

It took him a while to realize Peggy had come back to stand next to him.

“I’ve got enough on me for the bed. But—”

Bucky did a quick add-up in his head. A single ward cost six a day for however long. He didn’t have that much on hand. All his money was in jars, locked up until spring to shift them. Nobody did business in the winter if they could help it. Easier to be caught. Follow the trail of snow chains and you’d find the driver.

Peggy was saying she could wire for some more money in the morning. Bucky shook his head. Steve was his responsibility.

Dum Dum knew this guy, had talked about big money even though none of them wanted the risk. A fella went by the alias Hawkeye, who set up a spot for collection every month, just a few miles north over the county line.

When he straightened up, Peggy was leaning against the driver’s side, smoking a cigarette.

She gave Bucky a tight smile and climbed in. Bucky wondered if he should drive. But he was no more familiar with a Studebaker than Peggy was with whited-out country lanes.

Snow chains crunched on hard gravel once they crawled onto the main road. The blackness was so dense it was like the road wasn’t there until the headlights carved one out. The car rounded a bend and Bucky caught a flash in the side mirror: a light coming on in the filling station they’d just passed.

Everyone knew who’d sealed a deal in these parts. Could be a new pair of boots, a watch fob that hadn’t been there before, or headlights that swung across dark windows in the dead of night. All it would take was a flashlight waved a certain way. They wouldn’t be able to get away fast in this weather—

“I’ve never heard snow before.”

His heart drummed for four whole beats before he stuttered out a, “What?”

“Snow. I didn’t know it had a sound.”

Bucky stared back. Peggy had cracked, surely. Snow wasn’t something you listened to. Snow was breaking ice out of springs in the mornings, and laying down extra blankets for the cattle.

Peggy didn’t turn to face him. The corners of her mouth lifted. “Close your eyes and listen.”

She’d used the same tone this afternoon. Had stood her ground and said like hell you were going alone, two heads worked better than one. It reminded him of Liz.

Bucky closed his eyes.

At first he couldn’t hear anything but the car. Then, a soft shhh, peaceful like. His first bike had made the same noise when he’d rode it down the hill. Bucky had pretended the rustling of leaves was a dragon’s tail, swishing behind its bulk. It was a miracle that he’d gotten his hands on the bike. Things had a tendency to stray from their original purposes in these parts: old signboard turned into barns; pipes into pump handles; plows hammered into shape again and again until they collapsed into red dust. Bucky’d found it in the hollow behind the tool shed, bent out of shape. Father had helped him to sand off the worst of the rust, and tied some old burlap around the ends to make handles.

A splash of white slammed into his closed eyelids. The car stopped. Bucky squinted at the shapes planted in the middle of the road, and picked out the glare of a badge.

Sheriff Schmidt ambled towards them. His eyes narrowed at Bucky, then widened when he spotted who was in the driver’s seat. He hesitated and lowered the light. “Miss Carter.”

“Evening, Sheriff.” Bucky hadn’t seen Peggy smile like that before. A smile that greeted you as well as said mind-your-own-business. He imagined this, too, belonged to the city.

“A late stroll?”

“Family engagement.”

“And him?” Schmidt jerked his chin towards the side. Bucky stared straight ahead. If he looked over, he might do something rash.

Peggy dipped her chin. “I’m giving James a lift to the hospital. It’s on my way.”

“Hospital…” Schmidt’s cheek bulged as he licked his eye tooth. “Which one?”

“Rocky Mount.”

The short, plump officer behind him piped up. “Mind if we check the trunk?”

Peggy’s mouth thinned into a line. She made to reach for the glove box. “Would you like to have a look at my father’s telegram, too?”

Both men flushed. Schmidt gave the officer a hard shove.

Bucky fingered the brass knuckles in his pocket. He could do it, drop them with a one-two punch: push out of the car, sock the jowly officer in the temple, get a handful of Schmidt’s jacket and crack his head back on the cold metal. It would be worth it. Except there was the journey back to consider. There was Steve in the hospital, waiting.

Jowly moved the thick coat flung over the back seat. With a shout, he rapped his knuckles against a wooden crate.

“Get it open.”

The top was nailed shut. The two men grunted and swore. Dug their thick fingers into the gap between the lid and the crate.

Peggy rested both hands on the wheel. Her ifndex finger tapped out a leisurely beat.

“I really wouldn’t bother—”

The lid came away with a crunch. Jowly stumbled back and almost landed on his ass. A stack of paper spilled out. Underneath it, a corner of a typewriter stuck out. Bucky smothered a laugh at the look on their faces.

“Careful, gentlemen.” Peggy sounded perfectly amicable. “I did put all those notes in order.”

Schmidt turned the color of old liver. He picked up a handful of pages and hastily stuffed them back in. The motion only brought more loose pages fluttering out. In the end he slammed the car door shut.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Peggy nodded at each of them. “I’ve an early train to catch.”

The car lurched forward again. Bucky watched the two figures get smaller in the mirror. He hadn’t realized he’d sweated clean through his undershirt. Now the cotton was sticking to his back. He pressed a hand over his chest, certain that there was a fist-sized hole there. Hell, the Commonwealth Attorney himself must have been stirred in his sleep by how loud Bucky’s heart was going.

He glanced over. Peggy looked completely at ease, save a faint sheen of sweat at her temple. There really wasn’t anything like her for miles around.

Damn, Steve, you softhead. But I can see why.

Steve would have reopened the grill as soon as he’d left the hospital. But he still tired easily; three weeks laid up in bed, coughed until his ribs near cracked. He hadn’t fought much when Bucky drove them straight back to his place. Just until you’re back on your feet, come on.

He was sorry that he’d missed Peggy leaving. Family stuff, had to leave sharpish, Bucky explained. Here, have some more, gotta fatten you up again, you bag of bones.

Figured he’d survive pneumonia, only to be pecked to death by a mother hen.

He wondered where Bucky had got the money for the hospital. Bucky shrugged and said he’d got some saved up, don’t worry, you can pay me back whenever.

Steve hated being idle, though. So he helped out around the house. First thing he did in the mornings was to check on the chickens, see if they had eggs for him. Then he took down the washing hung by the stove and folded them. Put coffee on as Bucky came back with fresh buckets of water, his nose red from the cold.

Woulda made a fine wife for anybody, Rogers.

You’d know. Don’t see nobody lining up to get hitched with you.

The pair of them sat in front of the fire once the chores were done. Steve was starting to get an itch when Bucky shoved his sketchbook into his hands. Clicked his tongue at Steve’s surprise.

His fingers had forgotten none of the old habit. Bucky watched for a while, crouched by Steve’s chair. It reminded Steve of the first time Bucky had come to find him at the grill. Steve had been doodling in the dirt on the front porch. Bucky hadn’t toed through the lines like the other kids had.

“What you gonna do?”

Steve jumped. Dr. Erskine’s glasses went crooked.

“You mean, when the weather warms?”

“Well, that, too.” Bucky scratched his chin. “But I mean after. You gonna run the grill forever?”

“Don’t see why not. I’ll find someone else to help around.”

“You don’t wanna…”

“What?”

“See what’s out there. Up north or something.”

“What brought this on?” An idea came to him. Steve almost dropped the book. “You leaving?”

“Naw.” Bucky straightened up and wandered over to the busted radio. He’d been fiddling with it by Steve’s bedside for days. “Everything I need is here.”

Steve gave it some serious thought. What’s he gonna do? Keep the grill going, pay Bucky back, get his hands on Peggy’s book. This time next year he wanted to have saved up enough for a trip to the Museum of Modern Arts, for him and Bucky. He’d been dreaming, aching with it ever since he’d read about the opening in the papers. The exhibitions would probably bore Bucky. But if city belles looked anything like Peggy, Steve would have a hard time dragging him back.

Bucky was watching him from across the room, a crease between his eyebrows. Steve rubbed his eyes and smiled back. “Reckon I’ll stick around. I’m fine right here.”

Before his sisters had got married and moved out, his parents’ house had been filled with the smells of pork frying and simmering apple butter. Shrill laughs and snatches of song heard over a bubbling pot.

With Steve here, it reminded him of those times. His father had squinted at newspapers in front of a fire like he was doing now. Bucky half expected to see Maude from the corner of his eye, joining daisy chains on the floor.

If it had been an age for him to wake up to the sound of someone else moving in the house, Steve must have forgotten what it was like.

The thick manila envelope laid in the bottom drawer of his chest. Every night before bed he’d bend down and take it out. The feeling of holding it changed from night to night.

At times it was like the envelope was light as a blade of grass, ready to float away towards tall buildings and shop windows big enough to see your whole self in. Towards cars that came to you and took you to places.

Other times, he could hardly pick it up. His hands stayed frozen by his knees.

Not yet, not yet, wait another day.

Bucky helped him to open the shutters and get a fire going. Took everything Steve might need out of the cellar. Chopped up enough wood for a week, too.

Really, Buck, I’m not an invalid.

Got nowhere else to be. Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face. They’d been dozing like old dogs for the past week, locked indoors by the cold. Steve had no idea how Bucky could look more tired than during harvest. His eyes were more sunken in, and he had that squinty look when he was really exhausted.

“Louise’s in.” Steve had seen that coppery head of hair across the road.

Bucky clamped his jaw down on a yawn. “Huh?”

“Aren’t you…” his throat squeezed around the word ‘courting’, wouldn’t let it out, “gonna go for a ride with her?”

Bucky blinked a couple times. “In this weather?”

Steve banged the pan onto the stove. It wasn’t like Bucky to play dumb. Bucky apparently missed Steve’s mood. He glanced around the grill. Shoved his hands in his pockets as he worked his jaw.

Steve looked up at a sudden draught. Bucky’s footsteps were hurrying away. That sure was odd.

He didn’t have to wonder for long. Bucky shoved through the door again and marched right up to him. His face was blotchy. Steve stared at the envelope Bucky slammed down on the counter.

“What—”

“Peggy left me this.” Bucky talked over him. “I’m sorry, Steve. Shoulda given it to you first thing, I…” He seemed to have run out of steam. His shoulders slumped.

The envelope looked heavy. There was a piece of paper tucked in at the front. Steve glanced at it. The words were printed in black: All set. Expense covered. He didn’t know what it was but he edged away.

“Bucky?”

“She sent your pictures to…” Bucky picked at a spot on his sleeve, “…some school or something. Said they’d take you. For, you know, art.”

Steve walked around and gripped Bucky’s elbows. “What you on about?”

Bucky let out an impatient noise. He flipped the envelope over. At the front, Steve spotted Peggy’s hand-writing in capitals: City College of New York, underlined. The paper was punctured through at where the ink ended.

He had to sit down a spell. His head felt like that time when the doctors said he had anemia. Bucky touched his back and was still saying sorry. What for, Steve hadn’t a clue.

New York. He swallowed. It might as well have been the moon.

People had been leaving for years. Packed their things in a sack, hopped on a train with or without their wives, carrying or dragging their children. Went to Kansas, Oklahoma, Baltimore. Steve listened to the tales they sent back. Saw the ones returning in handsome suits and machine-made dresses. He just couldn’t imagine leaving the grill behind, not when he was the only one left.

Even now, with an acceptance letter in hand, the temptation wasn’t enough to uproot him.

Cities changed people. Alice’s sweetheart had gone to Chicago. Had done promised and promised he’d come back for her before the year was out. His letters had slowed then stopped completely. Ted had been sweet and kind. Not his fault, as Alice liked to tell people. The city made him forget. It tied Steve’s stomach in knots. A city would spit you out or swallow you, either way, you’d never be your old self again.

Bucky was all for it, once he’d stopped feeling guilty. Held up a hand and counted off the reasons. Peggy, for one. A girl like that, you do the following. All the museums you’d want to gawk at. Three—

He never got to finish. The door to the grill banged open. Dum Dum stumbled in, his face ashen. Steve and Bucky got to their feet.

“You gotta…the still!”

Bucky was out the door before Dum Dum finished. By the time Steve rushed out after him, the Ford was a pair of taillights in the distance.

“What happened?”

Dum Dum braced both hands on his knees and shook his head.

Steve managed to puff and pant his way to the spot. His next breath got stuck between his ribs. He’d heard horror stories of the lawmen taking an axe to a still, hacking into the metal. It was nothing compared to what he was seeing now. There were patches of scorched earth underfoot. Pieces of copper were scattered far out, blackened and curling around the edges. Bucky was kneeling in the middle of it all, grasping handfuls of crumpled earth in both hands.

Steve stooped to pick up a charred piece. The weight of it dragged him right down to the ground. He reached for Bucky’s hands, yanked until he let go. One of his nails was split, fat drops of red welled up.

“Dynamite.”

Steve shuffled closer on his knees and tugged Bucky close. Held his dark head to his shoulder so Steve didn’t have to look into those bloodshot eyes.

“They blew it up.” Bucky sounded like he was telling someone else’s tale. “Nothing to save. Nothing at all.”

Generations of pride and hard work. Gone, just like that.

He couldn’t even say Bucky’s name. Wherever he’d gone in his head, Steve couldn’t call him back. When Bucky sagged against him, Steve almost toppled over under the sudden weight. Funny, how he could still feel things like the rocks digging through his pants, when by all rights he should be numb. Without the still, they were all as good as done for. Crops were bringing in next to nothing, and it looked to be that way for a while. His grill was barely keeping himself in shoe leather.

At some point they must have staggered up and made their way back. Steve woke up in a bed, his stomach tight with hunger. The pillow smelt like lemon and tobacco.

He felt his way out into the kitchen. Bucky was sitting at the table, staring down at a mug. Steve couldn’t smell coffee.

Bucky looked up. His face was blank. “Want something to eat?”

Steve nodded. What else was he to do? Crawl back to bed and never get up again?

Bucky cracked eggs into a pan. Worked a spatula around the bubbling edge. Steve shuffled towards the table and sat down. Careful like the chair might be taken away from under him at any moment.

They ate the eggs and cold biscuits. Mopped up the grease with the extra care of the distracted.

“You should go,” Bucky said around a mouthful.

Steve blinked awake.

“To New York. Nothing left for you here.”

He said it so calmly. Steve’s temper flared. “I ain’t staying for the still. You know that.”

“All the same.”

Something was swelling up inside. Steve wasn’t sure if it was gonna come out of his eyes or his mouth.

“Thought you didn’t want me to.”

Bucky curled his fists. “Hell, Steve, I...wasn’t for me to decide. I know that.” His face smoothed out again. “I’ll telegram Peggy. You can be on a train before the week’s over.”

It was like Bucky was a face in the window, already getting smaller and smaller, no matter how hard Steve was hitting the glass with his hands.

He didn’t know he was crying until all he could taste was salt. He swiped at his face, trying to push the tears back, but they kept coming.

Then Bucky was kneeling in front of the chair, asking what’s wrong, saying his name. His hands gripped Steve’s shoulders.

“Shhh.” Bucky rocked him clumsily. “Peggy will look out for you. It’s not so bad.”

Steve was too embarrassed to lift his head. Angry, too. Even someone with batter for brains could see what Peggy did for him was a big deal. What right did he have to want more? To want Bucky there with him. Bucky’s family was here. What right did Steve Rogers have to take him away from them? None. He’d cost Bucky enough as it was. Always needed Bucky to look out for his scrawny ass even though he’d never admit it.

Bucky’s face was twisted, white around the mouth. He looked what, regretful? Scared? Or was it all some wild thing Steve was cooking up in his misery?

Bucky rubbed the whorl of hair at the top of Steve’s head, and pressed his mouth there. His ma used to do that when Steve was burning up, or couldn’t keep his food down. Now it only made the tears fall faster. Steve had to clamp his mouth down on the words: come with me, please. We could go anywhere, anywhere at all.

He startled when Bucky stumbled back, Steve and sorry and God and hell came out in one breath, choking him. Steve touched his mouth. His head finally caught up with his body, which had felt and remembered the chapped corners of Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky looked ready to bolt even though this was his house. Steve remembered Peggy asking, Bucky was the youngest, wasn’t he?

Yeah, how did you know?

He had that look. Like he grew up without stopping being a boy.

Steve lunged. Got a fistful of Bucky’s cardigan in both hands. “You mean it? You mean what you…” He was ruining Bucky’s clothes. Tearing everything up over an honest mistake. “Say you mean it, or so help me.”

He pressed his mouth back against Bucky’s, almost missed. Didn’t know what to do next. Didn’t dare to breathe or blink.

He was sure he was going cross-eyed when Bucky eased back. His mouth twitched in the corners until he was chuckling. Color rushed into his cheeks.

“Damnit, Rogers. That’s not how you kiss.” He sounded put-out but his voice was shaking.

Steve felt like a puff of dandelion. Like he could drift away and never touch the ground again.

“You’re all talk. Why don’t you show me, then?”

Steve nearly missed the last rung when he stepped off the train. His eyes were sucked in by the high arched ceiling leaping over their heads. Even the sunlight was different, cut up and combed through by huge, cross-barred windows.

He knew then and there that this city was for him, nowhere else would do. New York, Steve rolled the name around in his mouth like a sour ball. And just like that piece of candy on his birthday, it made his cheeks ache and eyes water.

He barely heard Bucky’s snort, or felt the elbow to his ribs.