By E. Don Harpe
Copyright 2008 Ernest D. Harp
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Nathaniel Miller was a sour man. His face seemed forever locked in a perpetual grimace, as though he'd bitten into a persimmon two weeks before the first frost. He was not a handsome man, by anybody’s standard. Nate was rather small of stature and several pounds on the heavy side, and although he was a year shy of fifty, he had only a few strands of coarse dark hair still visible on his head.
If his physical appearance gave him cause to doubt his attractiveness, his wealth more than made up for it. He owned the largest farm in Rock Castle, Kentucky, and there had even been some talk the territory might send him to represent them in the next congress.
But no amount of wealth or community standing could keep Nate Miller from being a jealous and suspicious man. His small slate colored eyes were cold as a Kentucky morning in early January and gave the impression they could look right through a man. It seemed as if Nate was sure that each person he came into contact with had something to hide.