Cricket whispered. “I can see him through my bedroom window. Every night at about ten, he passes our house on his way home. Then he heads along the old fence line, stops, and waters his horse at this trough out here behind the general store…then disappears into the night.” When no one else responded to Cricket’s explanation of how she happened to know where Heathro Thibodaux would be that night, she turned to see three familiar faces—each donning an individual expression of being rather thoroughly entertained. Marie’s long-lash-shaded eyes were narrowed, emphasizing the sly, insightful, knowing expression of a fox that Cricket recognized all too well. Ann’s pretty blue eyes were wide with admiration and delight, just as they always were when she felt deep approval of something Cricket said or did. And Vilma, as always when she felt she’d uncovered something Cricket would rather she not know, arched her eyebrows so high with triumphant understanding that Cricket thought they might leap right off her forehead if she strained them any further.
