were going hunting and then he’d gone home to gather his gear, and soon he and CJ had set off.
The well-kept cabin behind where CJ sat had been Artie’s for thirty years. When he bought it he’d assured his wife that it would be a place for frequent getaways—a place for romance. In the following three decades, Artie’s better half had graced the cabin a total of seven times and had, even on those occasions, placed second behind whatever guns Artie had brought with him. She didn’t much begrudge the time he spent here alone, which wasn’t as frequently as she teased him, as she’d never taken to the outdoors. She was never able to gain a satisfactory level of comfort at the cabin.
At the moment, CJ thought it was the most perfect spot on the face of the earth. It was only a forty-five-minute drive from Adelia, but it might as well have been a few hundred miles due to the solitude aided by the tall trees, the gorges, and elevated land that made up the Adirondack terrain. After they’d first arrived here, and after they’d stowed their things in the cabin, Artie had taken him on a short hike through the surrounding woods, and CJ had been taken back to his youth, to times spent all over this land at the foot of the mountains.
The walk had been short only because of Artie’s arthritis. CJ still wondered how Artie would make it more than a quarter mile tomorrow, but he was willing to put his trust in the older man’s ability to determine his own limits.
The moon had risen early, right on the heels of the setting sun, and it now shone full and bright overhead. CJ had tipped his head to look at it, and had touched the fringes of a light doze when Artie said, “It’s a hunter’s moon tonight. A good omen for tomorrow, I suspect.”
“Every moon is a hunter’s moon as long as he has a gun,” CJ said.
Artie chuckled, and CJ smelled the sweet aroma of pipe smoke float his way.
“The Indians called it the hunter’s moon because it rose early and let them continue to track the prey they’d been hunting even as the sun went down,” Artie explained.
CJ considered that while the moon returned his stare. After a while he said, “Pretty convenient if you’re a hungry Indian.”
Thor snorted in his sleep, which CJ took as the dog offering his opinion.
“I suppose it was,” Artie agreed. “I suppose it was.”
Artie was up first, shaking CJ awake. He was already dressed, and as CJ rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, he smelled coffee and saw a stack of pancakes in the center of the table. He couldn’t believe he’d slept soundly enough to have not heard or smelled Artie’s breakfast preparations.
“What time is it?”
“Five,” Artie called over his shoulder, having returned to the stove and a sizzling pan of eggs. “If you’re quick, we can be out of here at five thirty like we wanted.”
CJ wasn’t sure what he wanted. It had been a long time since he’d hunted and the hour seemed ungodly. As he sat up on the bed, willing his legs to move, he was amazed at how youthful Artie appeared. In his jeans and flannel shirt, hunting boots, and a bowie knife affixed to his belt, he looked at least ten years younger. He reminded himself, though, that Artie was almost thirty years older than he, and that did much to force him out of bed.
Artie set a cup of coffee in front of CJ as he took a seat at the table.
“Thanks,” CJ said.
Artie returned to the stove and brought the skillet of eggs back to the table, setting it on a potholder, and then lowered himself into the other chair.
“Did you know that you snore?” he asked as he piled eggs onto CJ’s plate.
After a sip of coffee CJ said, “I’ve been told.”
The two men ate the rest of the meal in silence, and then as Artie cleaned up the dishes, CJ finished getting dressed. When he’d left Tennessee he hadn’t packed the necessary things to spend a day hunting, so they’d stopped at a sporting goods store on the drive in so CJ could at least pick up some thermal underwear and a decent pair of boots. Because they weren’t broken in yet, the boots felt a little tight as he slipped them on. He knew he’d have a few