The widow hesitated, then tossed her head as she dropped the package of lunch into the skiff.
“Ye forgit I was swamp raised! Git me the paddles and a pole, Joe. Don’t stand there gawkin’.”
“No wimmin ever went as far as Black Island. It hain’t safe!”
“My Paw took me there when I was a little girl. I hain’t forgittin’ the way.”
“Ye’r stubborn as a mule!” Joe accused, glaring at her. “If you’re dead set on goin’, I see I’ll have to give in and go with ye. But it’s agin my best judgment.”
“No one asked ye to go with us, Joe,” the widow said tartly. “We aim to make this trip by ourselves. Jest git the paddles and pole.”
Joe threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat and started slowly for the shack. “Wimmin!” he muttered. “There jest hain’t no sense in ’em!”
He took his time inside the shack, but finally returned with the requested paddles and pole.
“There ye are!” he snapped. “But I’m warnin’ ye, if ye git into trouble or lost, don’t expect me to come after ye.”
“Now I’ll take the kicker motor,” the widow ordered, paying no heed to his words.