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house on the left, right by a church. Probably the church where he preaches.”
    Luke started the car and cold air blasted us.
    “It’ll be warm in a minute,” he apologized. “Which way is Horse Pens 40?”
    “Go back to where we came into town. You’ll see the signs.” Back to where?
    “The man in the post office laughed when I asked for Holden Crawford. He said, ‘You talking about Monk?’ I said I guessed so.”
    “Well, Monk doesn’t sound so bad,” Sister said. She pointed toward the tearoom. “Why don’t we stop for lunch?”
    “I’ve got to find Virginia first.”
    I handed Sister another sandwich.
    As she was unwrapping it, she asked, “Luke, do you know how much estrogen Virginia takes?”
    “She doesn’t need it.”
    Sister and I looked at each other. Silence does have a sound.
    We stopped at a four-way stop. A pickup with two bird dogs in the back turned left and headed up Chandler Mountain ahead of us. The dogs didn’t seem to be uncomfortable. They were sitting against the cab, leaning into the curves as the truck climbed the mountain. I knew they were cold, though, and I knew the open bed of a pickup was no place for an animal. I was relieved when the driver put on his turn signal and turned into the driveway of a farmhouse.
    Chandler Mountain is a series of plateaus, some so wide you can’t tell you’re up high. The land is rich andwell farmed. The area is known for its pimentos and tomatoes, which ripen well into November. Something about the thermals delays frost there for several weeks.
    Winter had come with a vengeance that day in January, though. We passed a huge tomato-packing shed. A sign that proclaimed this was a farmer’s co-op had come loose on one side and twisted in the wind. There was nothing that hinted that this had been a busy place just two months earlier.
    The plateau ended, and the road became a series of sharp curves. There was little traffic. The only car we met was going slowly and was barely on its side of the road, the bluff side with no guardrails. The driver, an old bearded man, waved at us.
    “Who the hell would want to live up here?” Luke grumbled.
    “It’s beautiful when you get to the top,” I said. “You can stand on the rocks at Horse Pens and see forever. The most beautiful sunsets you ever saw.”
    “How come they call it Horse Pens 40?”
    “The rocks form a natural corral. The Indians used to herd their horses in there, so they say. The 40 is because it’s the forty-acre parcel that Horse Pens is on.”
    We had reached another plateau and passed by the entrance to Horse Pens where a sign attached to a barb-wire fence announced that the spring festival would be April 22, 23, 24.
    “Start looking for the house,” Luke said. “The mailbox, anyway.”
    There were several small houses, all close to the road. Except for the smoke coming from chimneys, there were no signs of people. Occasionally in frostbitten gardens, a few turnip greens still showed color.
    Sister pointed. “There. There’s a church.”
    Luke slowed down.
    The house next to the church sat farther back from the road than most of its neighbors, but like the others, it was small, two rooms wide with a narrow porch. Its only distinguishing feature was that in the front yard was a large satellite dish. On the mailbox was the name CRAWFORD .
    Luke turned left into the gravel driveway between the church and house and stopped.
    “What’s the matter?” Sister asked. “This has got to be the right place. Look. There’s a van with ladders and stuff on it.”
    “I don’t know. I don’t feel so good.” Luke leaned his head against the steering wheel.
    “He’s just nervous,” I said to Sister. And then to Luke, “Aren’t you?”
    “What if she doesn’t want to see me?” he said, his head still down.
    “Then she’s crazy. There’s everything in Columbus. Malls, department stores. Up here,” Sister pointed to the satellite dish, “they don’t even have cable