"Do you have a place to spend the night, Alex?" Nellie asked it without thinking, then promptly went red in the face. He’ll be figuring I’m looking to extend the dancing to some of the under-the-sheets kind! "I have two rooms to let," she said quickly. "Both of them are empty right now, but I had a nice couple stay with me last month. Of course, they’d just gotten married, so they spent a lot of time with the door closed. I didn’t listen at the keyhole, in case you’re wondering." I have to bridle my tongue, she thought with a mental groan. It’s as loose as a saloon gal’s garters! She looked up at Alex and was relieved to see his smile.

"The fact is, Miss Nellie, that a room would be dandy--but won’t that cause a few eyebrows to go up in this starchy little town? A single man and an umarried lady under the same roof?"

"No one will think anything of it, honey," Nellie said, reality popping her bubble of good cheer. "Not if the unmarried lady is me. Your reputation is safer than buttermilk in a grogshop."

"You’re sure?" Alex took off his hat and ran a hand through his yellow hair. "And you wouldn’t be mistrustful to have a stranger in your rent room?"

Nellie looked up at him, suddenly nervous. But he smiled down at her and her worries dissolved. How could someone with a smile like that be up to no good? "You’re not a stranger anymore," she said. "You know all our secrets."

"Not all of them," Alex said, reaching around her to push her door open. At her look, he grinned. "I still don’t know the color of your underdrawers."

"BOUND is a thoroughly entertaining romance with an unflagging social conscience." **** (four stars)

--Gina Bernal,

Romantic Times Magazine

"…I really, really enjoyed BOUND. It was like Louis L’Amour, only with a woman."

--a male reader from Texas

"Once I reacquired TIES from my granddaughter, I found myself being highly entertained... It was much more of an attention-getter than James Mitchner... Major is a talented author who gives her readers the opportunity to partake of sheer reading for pleasure… style, composition and wild imagination… I love reading a book where the good guys win and the bad ones go to that place where bad guys will reside for all eternity…"

--a reader from Texas

"I just finished TIES over the weekend! What a great book. I just loved it. I just love the subtleties…such a delightful band of characters! Harry is a loverly hero!!"

--a reader from California

Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

Copy Edited by: Sara V. Olds

Senior Editor: Crystal Laver

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Pam Ripling

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

http://www.wings-press.com

Copyright © 2002 by Roberta Olsen Major

ISBN 1-59088-108-7

Published In the United States Of America

February 2003

For Lorraine Stephens--trusted editor, valued colleague,

and all-around "good guy"--who knew Nellie had a story long before I did.

And in memory of Joe, a genuinely nice man

who greatly enriched my life in the short time we had together.

The author wishes to thank Terry Roy

for solving a balky horse problem…

Williams Trace, Texas

Nellie smoothed the crumpled paper flat with a quick pass of her heated flat iron, then set the iron on the mantle to cool.

The nib of her pen had broken again, and she was just too blamed glum to make the walk over to Charley Fugg’s mercantile this evening to buy a replacement, so she rummaged through her box of pencil stubs and fished out the best of the bunch. Licking the tip, she set pencil to paper.

Nellie licked the tip of her pencil again, and reread what she’d written. It wasn’t fancy writing, and maybe the former schoolteacher would be critical? No, she decided, not Phyllis, who hadn’t a mean bone in her body.

Nellie sighed and folded the page into thirds.

She’d baked herself a little cake, three layers, rich with butter and drizzled with a sugar glaze that should by now have hardened to a decadent crunch.

"I almost don’t have the heart to eat it," she muttered, then got to her feet. Almost, but not quite. A nice slab of cake washed down with a cup of tea would maybe fill the hole brought on by Phyllis’s reminder of this year’s unremarked fortieth birthday.

Though why Garrett Galway hadn’t sent along a little note like he had five years running was still a mystery that the two months since her birthday hadn’t dimmed.

Well, cake wouldn’t solve the mystery, but it might make the presence of it easier to swallow. Though it would surely take more than one puny slice of it to do the trick.

Might as well take her fork to the whole thing. There was no one here to share it with anyhow.

"Can’t we stop, Daddy? I’m just about wore out."

Judson Deavers looked at his son, who was partial to complaining, and his daughter, who wasn’t. This time it was Shirley who’d piped up. Norman just had that whipped look about him, his fourteen-year-old shoulders drooping and his head hanging like it was too heavy for his neck to hold up. Jud recognized that look. It was as familiar to him as his own face.

It was his own face.

"We’ll stop soon as we find a likely spot."

"Aren’t any likely spots round here," Shirley said. "Just towns, which you aren’t so very fond of."

"There’ll be something," Jud said. He took his hat off his head and scratched at the few hairs he had left up top, then ran his fingers from his droopy mustaches down through his bristly chin whiskers. Wasn’t that just like life? Not enough on top to block the sunshine, and so much sprouting on the chin that scraping it off with a razor was like scything through a wheat field.

Why couldn’t there be a moderation in things? he wondered. Just enough up top to rest a hat on and enough below to trim up nice for a Saturday night sociable?

But life didn’t work that way, not with hair and not with luck--as Judson Deavers had learned to his sorrow these past two years. Not that I’m partial to a Saturday night sociable anyway, he reminded himself, though the reminder gave him a pang.

"Look, Daddy, it’s a cabin!" Shirley had gone on ahead, but now she turned back. "Nobody here."

"That’s on account of it’s burned down, idiot," Norman muttered.

"It’s not all burned down, you twice-idiot. Just the front." Shirley was already up on what remained of the porch, kicking at the charred door until it swung open with a mournful creaking. "The backside’s sound enough."

Jud didn’t hold out much hope, but he followed his daughter, putting a foot through the wood of the blackened porch, which was to be expected, but not scraping any skin off in the process, which was a happy surprise.

Shirley was right. The back half of the cabin was sound, with a nice rock hearth which was, ironically, the place least covered with smuts and ash.

"They’ll be back," Norman said. "No one leaves a place like this for long."

"There’s nothing much here," Shirley reported. "Except a bunch of spiders and cobwebbing." She chuckled. "They must like the quietness of the place. They’re probably cursing us right now, and shaking their eight legs at us."

"No need for cursing," Norman muttered. "We been cursed all we can take."

Norman had the right of it, but Jud didn’t say so out loud.

"No stock, no neighbors, no food," Shirley went on with her inventory. "Too bad about the food part, Daddy, but you can’t have everything."

You got that right, he said, but prudently, only to himself.

"So can we stay, Daddy? Rest up? I got a blister the back of my heel that’s giving me some pain." Shirley was stripping off the remains of her tattered shoe, exposing a raw and bloody wound that made Jud wince and Norman pretend to wretch.

"Why didn’t you say something sooner, Shirl?" Jud felt that old helpless, hopeless feeling creep up inside him. What was he doing to his kids by this kind of life, except serving them up more misery and grief?

"And what would you have done about it?" Shirley asked with a wisdom well beyond her sixteen years. "Carried me?" She turned, rummaged among a pile of debris, and found a crock with a big chunk missing from its lip. "There’s bound to be water nearby, a nice cabin like this. Go find some, Norman, and bring it back so we can commence to cleaning."

"You ain’t the boss of me," Norman said. "Besides which, it’d take a hundred trips to bring back enough water in that to even make a dent in the dirt of this place."

"Then you’d best get started," Shirley said. She found a broom handle next, only slightly charred, though the straws were burnt to the nubs. "Maybe we can find some dry grass to fashion us a replacement. It’s a dandy handle."

"Dandy," Jud echoed. He didn’t have the heart to argue the merits. "I’ll fix that."

"Fine, Daddy," she said, and gave him a particular smile that reminded him of Doloros.

He took the handle and turned away. No use blaming the daughter for the sins of the mother.

He thanked God just about every day that Shirley was as practical and determined as old Granny Deavers had been. That made one of them who still had a slim chance of landing on their feet. He figured he and Norman were just about gutshot--though that was a sad thing to admit about a boy of fourteen and a man just turned forty-two--but maybe Shirley would be all right if he could ever untangle the mess of these past two years.

For now, though, the broom was almost more than he could manage.

There was bound to be something edible around here, as fertile as this land was. And this was spring, after all, which meant things were growing.

Harvests had been bitter in the past, but maybe that meant the Deavers were due for a break.

And maybe this abandoned cabin was the start of it.

~ * ~

"Miss Nellie." Abel Galway stood at the door of Nellie’s front room, just about blocking the light.

Nellie took a moment to study him, this oldest son of Maurice and Verna Louise. He’d been an unlikely child and a horrible adolescent, but had surprised everyone in Williams Trace, except, perhaps, his mother, when he’d turned into a fine young man. He’d been fat as a child, and soft, and a whiner, but now he was husky and filled out some, thanks, in part, to his job as a teamster.

He’d even learned to chew with his mouth closed, which the whole town had reason to be grateful for at Sunday School picnics and town fairs and sociables.

If only he’d quit sniffing around Brita Blum, who was trouble wrapped up in a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, dimple-cheeked package. But there was no use in pointing out things like that to a young man. It was in a young man’s nature to be drawn to the liveliest filly in the corral.

"What’s got you darkening my door?" Nellie asked. "I’m sure it’s not my cookies." She’d already picked two of them off a plate and carried them over.

Abel grinned and, with mumbled thanks, took a bite of one of them.

"And it’s not time for one of your peddling jaunts," Nellie went on, "because I haven’t made up my batches of jar cakes yet. So what is it brings you here this afternoon, Abel? Speak up. You know how I hate the sound of my own voice going on and on." She grinned to show she knew what a whopper she’d just told.

Abel chewed his bite of cookie and swallowed before replying. "I was carrying some barrels out to Lovell’s this morning for Mr. Fugg," he began, "and I passed by Benjamin Rivers’ old place."

Nellie’s interest perked right up. "And?"

"And you know how you told me to mention if anything ever changed out that ways?"

Nellie nodded. "I half-promised myself I’d watch out for it, in case Bess and Benjamin ever decided to come back." She shook her head. "Fool that I am. They’re never coming back, and we ought to have let that cabin burn to the ground three years ago, instead of rushing to save it." She got back on track with an effort. "So you’re saying something’s changed out at the cabin? What, did the roof finally fall in?"

"Someone’s staying there," Abel said. "I saw smoke."

"Likely it just caught fire again," Nellie said with a sigh. And that would be that, wouldn’t it?

"It looked like smoke from a cook fire," Abel said. "Small and clean."

"I’ll drive out and check on it," Nellie said. "Not much stirring around here at the present anyhow. And a little ride might purge my soul of the dismals."

"I’ll drive you," Abel offered.

"Don’t you have something better to do?"

Abel grinned. "Papa plans to whitewash the church this week, but I’d rather drive you out to the cabin, Miss Nellie, if it’s all the same to you."

"I’d be obliged," Nellie said. "I hate handling that team of mules myself. I’ll just get my hat, Abel, and you run and tell Verna Louise what you’re up to."

"I’m nineteen," Abel said. "I’m too old to be telling my mama where I’m off to every minute of the day."

"Until you’re wed, you’re obliged. By courtesy, if nothing else." Nellie smiled. "I’ll pack a little bite to eat while you’re doing your duty, if that motivates you any."

Abel’s eyes lit up.

He moved fast for such a big boy.

~ * ~

They’d tidied up the cabin pretty well these three days, the Deavers, working like they meant to stay, though Jud knew it was impossible. Norman had snared a rabbit--though it was Jud’s daughter who’d been left to dress it while Norman went off and had himself a good cry over having caught himself a bunny then having to eat it instead of make a pet of it--and Shirley had found some greens to boil, enough so that, even with the Deavers helping themselves, the local squirrels wouldn’t miss out come winter.

Still, they went to sleep each night with a rumble in their stomachs that hadn’t been silenced completely for coming on to two years.

"It’s a nice place," Jud said on the afternoon of the third day. "Worth fixing up, if anyone had a mind to."

"How about us?" Norman asked, a faint spark showing in his brown eyes for the first time in as long as Jud could remember.

"We’ll sure leave it better than we found it," was all Jud would say, but he’d already begun mentally restacking rocks around the overgrown well out back, and shoring up the charred porch.

"Do we have to leave?" Shirley asked quietly. "Why can’t we stay, Daddy?"

"You know why," Jud said, his rising spirits taking a familiar plunge. "Besides which it don’t belong to us. Place as nice as this, someone’s bound to turn up to claim it." He turned away and headed off through the underbrush, his shoulders sagging.

If only his kids could have what they deserved.

But no one did, did they? Doloros sure hadn’t gotten her just deserts, had she?

Which was why they were here--while she was warm and comfortable at home.

Jud shook his head. The world was not a fair place. Some ate the whole pie, while others were left to wash up the empty tin and go to bed hungry.

~ * ~

Nellie and Abel drove up to the front of the cabin in the wagon and team that Nellie had bought three years back, and that Abel was now working to buy from her.

"You were right," she said. "Someone’s been here."

"I’m right from time to time," Abel said mildly, "in spite of what you and Mama like to think."

Nellie ignored him, climbing with a bit of difficulty off the high wagon seat. "Hello!" she called. "Who’s here?"

Silence met this attempt, but Nellie wasn’t fooled. She strode over to the ruined porch.

"Miss Nellie--" Abel began, but it was too late.

Nellie’s step was too heavy for the charred wood. It groaned underfoot, then caved in. Nellie’s feet shot forward, wedging under the porch, while wood collapsed around her like a house of cards.

"Miss Nellie!" Abel ran forward, horrified.

Nellie looked back at the young man, her face bright red. "I’ve been meaning to take off a few pounds. I guess this is what you’d call motivation."

"Are you hurt, Miss Nellie?"

She shifted, testing limbs and muscles. "Only my pride. But my pride has taken a powerful beating, Abel Galway, and if anyone back in town hears of it--"

"Your secret is safe with me, Miss Nellie."

"Don’t lie to me, boy. Now how in blazes are we going to get me out of here? I can’t move my feet. They’re stuck. And I got a board jabbing me in my back. And I’ve barked both my elbows. Likely there’s more to complain about, but it just hasn’t hit me yet. You got a rope, Abel?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Hitch me up to the team, then," Nellie said with a sigh, "and pull me out like a tree stump."

"That’ll likely hurt," Abel said.

The scorched door slammed open, just missing whacking Nellie full in the face by a hair’s breadth. A girl with a pair of fat brown braids stood in the doorway, eyes blazing down into Nellie’s. "What have you gone and done to my porch?"

"Your porch?" Nellie’s eyebrows went up, but she was at a distinct disadvantage here, trapped as she was by a pile of charred wood.

"Daddy was about to repair it," the girl wailed, "and now you’ve gone and broken it to smithereens!"

"It was an accident," Abel said.

"I’ll take a broom to you!" the girl shrieked. "To the both of you! How could you?"

A skinny boy with a mop of brown hair elbowed past the girl. "You ain’t got a broom, so quit your caterwauling, Shirl." He looked down at Nellie. "Whoo-ee, ma’am! You got yourself in a pickle, don’t you?"

"A sour one," Nellie said. "Abel here was just making ready to hog tie me and have the team pull me out."

"That’ll likely hurt," the boy said.

Nellie closed her eyes. Lord, give me strength. "You got a better idea?"

"Sure," the boy said, then leapt over the whole mess like a deer and headed off, hollering, "Daddy! Daddy! We got a woman stuck in the porch needs yanking!"

Nellie closed her eyes again. If I get any more red in the face I’ll expire, and then they can yank at me all they like--and no harm done.

"You had no call to break my porch," the girl said, arms akimbo.

Nellie kept her eyes closed. "When you’re old and fat and foolish, girl, there are days when you’d druther just be shot and get it over with."

"It was an accident, miss," Abel said again. "Miss Nellie was just meaning to check on the cabin."

"Is it yours?" the girl asked.

"Belongs to some friends," Nellie said, eyes still closed. "They won’t care about the porch." Bess would laugh about it. At the moment, though, Nellie felt a lot closer to crying.

Two sets of feet came running. "Here," a new, deeper voice said, then groaned. "Our luck’s turning, all right. It’s getting worse."

Nellie opened her eyes as the man came closer, and twisted to get a look at him.

He was not a particularly tall man, on the thin side, with a drawn face under a thatch of brown whiskers. His eyes were a tired brown, giving him the look of a droopy old hound dog. Maybe it’s the mustaches, Nellie thought. They bracketed his mouth like a hairy frown. And he’d look a sight better without the chin whiskers.

"Are you hurt, ma’am?"

Nellie scowled at him. "No. In fact, I’m so comfortable I think I’ll set up a homestead."

He flinched.

Instantly, she was remorseful. "It’s not your fault I’m fat and foolish," she said. "And mortified besides. If you can help me, I’d be much obliged."

The man gestured to his lanky son, and, with Abel joining in, they worked together to pull away as much of the debris as possible.

The girl, Shirley, fussed over each stick of charred and splintered wood until Nellie wanted to box her ears.

"That’ll do, Shirley," the man finally said, with the first bit of spark Nellie had seen in him. "Make yourself useful. Get the lady some water. She’ll likely have scrapes."

Once the disgruntled Shirley was gone, Nellie felt even more embarrassed.

"Here, son," the man said to Abel, "you get on the one side and I’ll get on the other, and when I count three, we’ll pull." He crouched down and put an arm around Nellie. "Begging your pardon, ma’am. I’ll be obliged to get a little familiar with your person for a minute, but--"

"Most fun I’ve had in years," Nellie muttered.

"Why, me, too, ma’am," he said, an unexpected smile threatening his mouth.

Nellie caught the twinkle in his brown eyes. "Just get me out of here, will you? And don’t you dare laugh at me, mister, or I’ll brain you with my cast iron skillet!"

"Yes, ma’am," he said, his voice meek. But his eyes were still bright, and it did much to cheer his face.

With Abel on one side and the man on the other, the lanky boy cheering them on like it was some kind of gentlemen’s sport, they gave a great tug. Nellie popped out like a cork, and they all tumbled backwards into the dust, Nellie’s skirts flying up over her head.

Could this get any worse? she thought. Maybe she should just leave her skirts up around her ears and play possum. But no, the man was reaching for her hand. And at least her underdrawers were freshly washed.

"Are you all right, ma’am?"

Nellie tugged her skirts out of her red face and jerked them down where they belonged. "If I don’t die of embarrassment, I expect I’ll survive the experience."

"Not like the porch." Shirley was back, with a broken crock of water that she probably wanted to dump on Nellie’s head.

The man put an arm around Nellie to help her up. "Any place in particular that hurts?"

Nellie struggled to her feet, wincing just a little. "What I lack in grace, I make up for in padding," she said when she’d caught her breath. "Now, care to tell me who in the Sam Hill you all are, and what you are doing at Benjamin Rivers’ cabin?"

The man looked at his kids, and they looked back, the girl with a flash of despair in her eyes so strong that it made Nellie blink.

The man held out his hand. "I’m Judson Deavers," he said when Nellie took it. "And these are my kids, Shirley and Norman." He paused. "Norman is the one on the right."

Nellie looked from him to his kids and back. And she laughed, laughed loud and long, until finally, reluctantly, the others joined in.

It was a short step from there to pulling out the picnic hamper and sharing pie and cold fried chicken all around, while Nellie tried to make sense of the Deavers’ story.

They were just passing through, they said, and happened to stop in here for a short time, but they’d be on their way right off, and were right sorry to have trespassed.

Nellie shrugged. "The fact of it is, Mr. Deavers, that Benjamin Rivers left with his wife four years back, and I don’t expect they’ll ever come back to Williams Trace. This place is as close to free for the taking as any spot in southwest Texas. It wouldn’t hurt for anyone who wanted to stay on awhile to make themselves to home. No one is likely to come along to claim it after all this time--especially with the cabin just about burned to a nub and all."

Deavers shot a look at his kids that Nellie didn’t miss. The girl’s face was a study in hope.

"It would suit some folks just fine," he said at last, "but it’s too late to plant and we haven’t got means to live by if we stay." His ears were red as he said it, but his whiskered chin was up.

"There’s work to be had," Nellie said as she started packing up the hamper, "for them that wants it."

"In town?" Deavers didn’t seem too fond of that idea.

"Out here," Nellie said. "In fact, there’s a porch over there in serious need of repair." She looked at it, and shook her head.

And Abel, who’d been pretty quiet this whole time, burst out laughing.

Nellie scowled at him, then turned back to Deavers, whose own lips were twitching. "Are you clever with those hands of yours?" she asked. "Besides pulling fat ladies free of porches, I mean?"

"I know which end of a hammer is up," Judson Deavers said, his voice gone quiet.

"Then you’ll find plenty of work in Williams Trace," Nellie said. "It’s a nice little town, though we can be over fond of tending to one another’s business on occasion."

Deavers got deadly still at this, but the look in Shirley and Norman’s eyes was working a powerful magic on him, and at last he sighed. "I’ll have to think on it, Miss Farmer. But I thank you kindly."

"Of course, if someone was wanting to keep things on the quiet for awhile," Nellie went on as she dusted crumbs off her ample bosom with a studied indifference, "why, Abel and me both know how to keep our lips buttoned." Abel’s jaw dropped at this, but Nellie ignored him. "So you think on it, Mr. Deavers, and then you do what you decide is best."

On their way back in to Williams Trace a short while later, Abel cleared his throat. "Miss Nellie?"

"What is it, Abel?"

"God’s own truth, Miss Nellie, but I’ve never known you to keep your lip buttoned. Not ever."

"There’s a first time for everything, Abel Galway. I suggest you give it a try yourself."

"I will if you will," he muttered.

Well, Nellie did, and Abel did, and for a time there was no one the wiser that Benjamin Rivers’ burned-out cabin was being put to use at last.

"Nellie." Verna Louise Galway wasn’t even through the doorway one Thursday afternoon a few weeks later and she was already talking. "I wanted to be the first to tell you, before you heard it elsewhere and got yourself upset."

Nellie looked up from the bowl of dough she was mixing with her long-handled wooden spoon. "Now, honey, you just sit yourself down and have a cookie, why don’t you, and tell me the news? You know I like to be the first to know."

"Not this time," Verna Louise said grimly, but she sat and chose a cookie from the half-filled plate. "Maurice and I have just come from Standard’s Point, where a--package--was delivered to us."

"More blue silk underdrawers?" Nellie teased.

Verna Louise bit into the cookie with more emphasis than was strictly necessary, which meant Nellie was forced to wait until the minister’s wife had properly chewed and swallowed.

"And was it a nice surprise, this package of yours?" Nellie asked when she could see that the last crumb had been swallowed.

"It was a surprise," Verna Louise said, "but it was not nice. Sit down, Nellie."

"You’re scaring me, Verna Louise." Nellie brought the bowl over to the table and sat across from her friend.

"Maurice’s brother arrived on the train." Verna Louise’s lips tightened briefly before she added, "With his new bride."

Nellie, whose cheeks had gone pink at the prospect of finding Garrett Galway in town, shook her head as if to clear her ears of water. "I misheard you, Verna Louise." She chuckled. "For a second there, I thought you said his new bride." She chuckled again, expecting Verna Louise to join in, but the minister’s wife only looked grimmer. "I did mishear you, didn’t I?"

"No," Verna Louise said, "you did not. I’m sorry, Nellie. He has married himself a young lady of no more than twenty and is as prideful as a peacock on the strut. I could wring his neck!"

Nellie’s face fell like a badly handled cake.

"He has acted the cad," Verna Louise said, "leading you on like this all these years."

Nellie forced a laugh. "The only leading Garrett Galway ever did to me was on the dance floor at the Saturday night sociable--and that was only when I let him lead."

"But you’ve had your hopes pinned on him, Nellie." Sometimes, Verna Louise saw things a little too clearly.

Nellie stood up, the bowl of cookie dough in her hands. "That’s stuff, Verna Louise, stuff and nonsense. Why, all Garrett Galway wanted was to lure me up Dallas way so’s he could have me baking in the kitchen of that restaurant of his. It was never more than that. And when I flat refused to, why, that was the end of it. Don’t you fret about me, Verna Louise! I had no hopes to be crushed." She stretched her mouth into a smile that felt as hollow as a dried gourd. "Now, what does Eunice have to say about Milt’s jaunts over to Six Gun Hollow? Does he come home smelling of cheap scent?"

"Nellie, you’re a scandalmonger," Verna Louise said.

"And proud of it," Nellie replied, stretching that fake smile even further.

They chatted for a few minutes longer, until the reverend’s wife had gotten her ruffled feathers all smoothed over, then Verna Louise took her leave.

"You’re sure you’re all right, Nellie?"

Nellie met the other woman’s look with wide eyes and an even wider smile--though it felt like her lips were about to snap from the strain. "Of course I am!"

But when the front door had closed behind the minister’s wife’s ramrod straight back, a bowl of cookie dough sailed across the room to crack against the mantel, its contents making a spectacular splat across the wooden floor.

Verna Louise stuck her head back in. "Good heavens, what happened?"

Nellie’s voice was bland. "It slipped."

~ * ~

"If you mean to go to the party," Inge Blum said on Saturday evening when she brought Nellie’s laundered linens by, "then we must do something with your hair, Miss Nellie. You always scrape it into that same old clump. Why, if you let it down, I bet it would look all soft and pretty around your face."

"Keeps it out of my way," Nellie muttered, twisting her hair into its usual knob.

Inge stood back, work-roughened hands on her hips. "So this is to teach that man a lesson--if you show up at the party looking like your same old self?"

"I’m not aiming to teach a lesson here." And if I were, well, maybe I’d just go on out to the Deavers cabin and drag Mr. Deavers in to be my escort this fine evening. Nellie paused. Now where had that thought come from? She shook her head and took a closer look at the younger woman. "What’s got in to you this evening, Inge? You’d best just hush up."

"I won’t hush, Miss Nellie. What you are doing is cutting off your own nose to spite your face. Let me arrange your hair. I’m good with hair. I dress my sister’s hair every morning."

"Your sister’s sixteen, and pretty as a pastry," Nellie said. "She could comb her hair with a well-used pitchfork and still come out smelling like a rose."

"You may not think much of my skills," Inge said, "but you can trust me, Miss Nellie. I could make your hair look real pretty."

"Of course I trust you," Nellie grumbled. "You’re good with laundry, you’re good with hair, you’re good with painting. Good thing you haven’t made yourself a wish to take up baking--or you’d be sure to put me out of business."

Inge smiled and shook her head. "I get by."

There was no doubt about that, Nellie thought as she looked sideways at the younger woman. Inge was as lean as a rawhide thong, with hands as red and rough as a greenhorn’s behind after a cattle drive, but she had beautiful hair, the color of ripe wheat, that she wore in looped braids behind each ear. They swung over her shoulders when she bent over the wash tub that was her livelihood here in Williams Trace. She was too young to be working so hard, but she was a serious girl. Took over her mama’s laundering business when Gerte Blum passed away of the ague last year. Took over the handling of her scapegrace younger sister as well. Managed the laundering just fine, but she wore a sturdy set of blinders when it came to her sister, Brita.

Inge had little enough to smile about--but she was smiling now, at the thought of fixing up Nellie’s hair.

How could Nellie resist that smile?

She couldn’t.

"No twists," she warned. "No braids or curls or cute little ribbons, Inge. I’m forty years old. I don’t want to look the fool."

"Leave it to me, Miss Nellie."

Inge’s fingers were deft as she tweaked Nellie’s brown hair, coaxing a few curls loose. "We’ll just soften it a little around the edges."

"Honey, my figure is plenty soft without you softening my hair, too," Nellie objected, but Inge ignored her.

"One little flower," the younger woman said. "There!"

Inge had Nellie turn toward the looking glass.

Nellie took a long look. Nothing to do about the apple cheeks or the raisin eyes, but the hair looked like loops of taffy, good enough to eat.

"See? I told you I could make it look pretty." Inge was still smiling.

"Well, I don’t know as I’d go as far as that," Nellie muttered, "but it looks better than the doorknob I usually wear." She tilted her head to one side. A lot better, as a matter of fact.

But no sense in standing around admiring herself in the looking glass, was there? She had a faithless lover to stare down tonight--and not for the first time in her life, either.

"Where’s Brita this evening?" Nellie asked as she smoothed the purple sateen of her party frock. "Is she coming to the sociable?"

Inge’s smile dimmed. "Brita wanted to go with the girls her own age. She didn’t have a wish to show up at a party with her drudge of an older sister." She brightened a little. "But she has a new dress! She looks as pretty as a picture, Miss Nellie. Mama would be so proud."

Nellie shook her head. Gerte Blum would be anything but proud of the shameless way her younger daughter was carrying on these days. Brita was as hell-bent a girl as Nellie had ever laid eyes on, sixteen going on thirty. If she didn’t end up in a bawdy house before the age of twenty, then it would be simply because there were legions of angels with flaming swords barring the door.

Inge, in all other ways as sensible and sweet a young woman as you could ever hope to meet, would hear no criticism of her sister.

And fellows being what they were, it was naturally the faster, younger Blum girl who drew all the attention, while twenty-year-old Inge just worked her fingers to the bone, minded her manners, and smiled as if she had the best of everything.

It was unfair how the world worked, Nellie thought. Fair would have sent Garrett Galway off with an apoplexy on his wedding night. Fair would have kept Lawrence Foster from allowing Penelope Farmer to turn his head three weeks before Nellie’s wedding twenty years ago. Fair would reward the good and punish the bad.

But that’s not how the world works, Nellie thought. So I might as well be bad--since I’m not getting rewarded anyhow.

Saturday night sociables were a regular fixture in Williams Trace. Once sponsored by the wealthy Butterwick family who, speaking of rewards, had gone to theirs--And are probably sizzling like bacon on hot griddle right now, Nellie thought, if there’s more justice in the afterlife than there is here on earth!--the remaining families with means, the Millers, the Lovells and the Byrons, took turns.

Everyone had expected the Butterwick cousins, Chauncy and Persephone Bentley, to assume their social duties almost four years ago when they’d turned up to claim the Butterwick place, but they’d cried themselves cash poor, and tried to ingratiate themselves with the community in other ways.

Nellie was not generally a wrathful person, but she’d taken an instant dislike to Persephone Bentley.

Carrying a basket of baked goods out to Johnwick’s Pride to welcome the new family, she’d had high hopes of finding a new friend to replace the two she’d lost. But Persephone was no Bess Murphy. No, nor Phyllis Blake neither.

Nellie shuddered at the memory. The Bentley children, Quinton and Ursula, were rude, their mother abrupt, and their father not often to be seen.

I’d make myself scarce, too, with a family like that around, Nellie had thought on her way back into town.

But tonight was the Millers’ turn to host the sociable, so it would be a pleasant enough evening of decorous dancing and weak apple cider.

I’d have done better to fortify myself with some bottled courage, Nellie thought as she and Inge reached the doors of the social hall. Though the minute I take up secret drinking is the minute I just lay myself right down and die. She’d seen the toll that road took, and wanted no part of it.

Inge patted her arm. "You’ll have fun, Miss Nellie. See if you don’t!"

"Whether I like it or not," Nellie said, her round face grim.

The music was in full swing already. Nellie spotted Brita at once, laughing boldly right up into the faces of two of the stockmen from out at the Lovells’ plantation.

"She’s asking for trouble," Nellie muttered.

Inge was already moving toward her sister, but she was intercepted by old Gene Sherman, who sketched a little bow. "Miss Inge, I’d be honored would you take a turn with me."

"Thank you, Mr. Sherman." Inge turned back to Nellie with a question in her blue eyes.

Nellie nodded. "Go ahead on. Have some fun, Inge. Brita will be all right. I see Eunice Caldwell. Think I’ll go have a chat with her."

Gene tucked Inge’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her out to the dance floor.

Nellie had no more desire to talk to Eunice Caldwell than she did to strip naked and paint herself with whitewash. Best to check out the refreshment table, nibble on a sweet or two instead.

She’d headed that way when she spotted Garrett Galway and his new bride. She stopped and gaped for a full thirty seconds before catching herself and moving on. Why, the new Mrs. Galway was no more than a girl, slender as a willow, with a cloud of curly dark hair and lips as full and red as if they’d been beestung.

That dirty old man! Nellie thought indignantly. What’s he doing with a child like that?

And she snorted. She knew exactly what he was doing with a child like that, and the child in question was probably totting up his assets as he did it.

Nellie drifted closer to the refreshment table.

"Come to sample the competition before fair day, hey, Miz Nellie?" Charley Fugg, proprietor of the mercantile, stood next to a plate of cakes, his thumbs hooked into his suspenders and his stomach spilling over the waist of his Sunday britches.

"Hello, Charley. Who’s minding the store?"

Charley Fugg grinned, revealing brown tinged teeth. "Why, the store minds itself of a Saturday night, Miz Nellie, so’s Charley Fugg can dance himself a jig or two."

Nellie looked down past his stomach to his two overlarge feet. "I don’t see him dancing."

"Well, I got to wait for the right partner," Charley explained, giving his suspenders a snap. "I got my eye on that sweet Lacey Lovell."

"Lacey Lovell means to marry a wheelwright over to Peach Creek come Christmas," Nellie said. "One closer to her in age than an old mule like you, Charley Fugg."

Charley drew himself up, affronted. "I’m a man of means, Nellie Farmer. Any young lady would be honored to have my attentions."

Nellie snorted.

"Aw, what would an old heifer like you know, anyhow?" He let loose with a rumbling belch, as if for punctuation, and stomped off.

"A fine way to handle a potential dance partner," a soft voice said from Nellie’s left.

"I wouldn’t dance with Charley Fugg if you paid me in golden eagles." Nellie turned to smile at the doctor’s wife. "How you doing, Bonnie? You’re looking kind of peaked, if you don’t mind my saying so."

"At least someone will say it," Bonnie Applegate said with a laugh. "I like straight talking better than whispers behind hands and a sorrowful shaking of heads."

"Can’t the doc do anything for you?"

"I’m afraid not," Bonnie said, "which totally defeats the purpose of having married a man of medicine, doesn’t it?" She turned to smile at her husband, though, giving lie to her words, and accepted the glass of punch he held out to her. "Thank you, my love. Nellie and I were just impugning your medical skills."

"And rightly so," Carlisle Applegate said.

He looks tired, Nellie thought. This slow decline of Bonnie’s is wearing on him. "Now, Carl," she said aloud, "don’t be too hard on yourself."

The doctor rubbed his smooth-shaven chin with the back of one hand, his eyes bleak, then rested one hand on his wife’s thin shoulder. "What kind of a doctor can’t even cure his own wife?" he said.

Bonnie reached to cover his hand with hers. "A good doctor," she said. "A fine one." She smiled up at him until he mustered an answering smile. "With a truly excellent bedside manner," she added in a husky voice.

Carlisle’s round cheeks got red. Even his sideburns seemed to perk up.

When Bonnie passes, Nellie thought, Carl’s going to need some powerful comforting. And maybe the one that gives it will be the one he looks to when he thinks to marry again.

The selfishness of this thought made her so ashamed she turned away--and ran smack into Garrett Galway.

"Nellie," the Dallas restaurant owner said, "it’s good to see you."

Nellie smiled at him with all the brilliance she could muster. "Why, Garrett! What a surprise! I didn’t know you was in town."

This seemed to startle him, for his florid face got redder. "You didn’t? I thought Verna would have mentioned it."

"She may have," Nellie said, keeping her tone airy, "but I didn’t make note."

His bride stepped over then, and twined her arm through Garrett’s. His face, if anything, got redder.

Good, Nellie thought. Maybe God’ll cut him down with that apoplexy right here in front of me.

"Nellie," Garrett said, "I’d like you to meet Buttercup Galway."

Buttercup? Nellie thought, outraged. He jilted me for a girl named Buttercup? But she managed a smile. "Why, Garrett, that’s so sweet!"

He and his bride both looked puzzled.

"Why, you adopting this precious child, and you a crusty old bachelor!" Nellie turned to Buttercup. "I’m guessing he’ll be a doting papa, honey, fond as he is of children. Especially pretty little girls," she added for good measure, "like your own sweet self."

"Nellie," Garrett sputtered, "I didn’t adopt Buttercup. I married her."

Nellie stretched her eyes wide. "Why, how unselfish of you, Garrett! Marry a child bride so that when you die in a year or two, she’s still young enough to find herself another husband." She turned to Buttercup, whose cheeks were redder than Garrett’s. "And you’ll be in the clover then, won’t you, honey?"

"Nellie," Garrett said, reaching for her arm, "I understand you’re upset, having your hopes dashed and all, but when I saw my sweet little Buttercup here--"

"Why, you were obliged to pluck her up by the roots," Nellie said. "And don’t flatter yourself, Garrett Galway." She jerked her arm out of his grasp. "As far as my hopes are concerned, why, you could no more raise them than you could that tallywhacker of yours."

Buttercup gasped.

I’m being very bad, Nellie told herself. And don’t it feel good?

"You got no call to talk like that in front of my bride," Garrett said, his face just about as purple as Nellie’s dress.

Nellie patted his arm. "She’ll have found it out already anyway, Garrett. And now, I’m promised for this next dance, so I’ll be on my way."

"Promised," Garrett echoed. "Why, no man would promise anything to a woman like you, Nellie Farmer."

"Oh no?" Nellie looked around the room, landing on the door as it swung open. "There he is now."

Hoping for old Grandpa Loomis, who would dance with anything in skirts, she saw instead a yellow haired stranger with guns strapped to his lean hips.

"Him?" Garrett sneered. "Dance with you?"

"You aren’t the only one likes ‘em young," Nellie said. "Yoohoo," she called, then sailed across the room like a clipper in full rig. Taking the stranger by the arm, she turned her face up to him. "If you’re a gentleman," she muttered through a fake smile, "you’ll dance with me, just this once. I’m a good dancer, though I don’t look like I ought to be."

"I’m not a gentleman," the young man said, then he smiled back at her, "but I’ll dance with you anyhow."

Heads turned as the yellow haired stranger swept plump Nellie Farmer into the center of the dance floor and spun her like a top.

You’ve bit off more than you can chew, Nellie thought as the young man executed some fancy footwork and she scrambled to keep up. And that’s a first!

"Thank you," Nellie panted when the music finally ended. "You’re a true hero."

"I’m no hero," the young man said. "But it was my pleasure, ma’am."

"So, introduce us to this young man of yours, Nellie," Garrett Galway said, malice in his stiff smile as he dragged his bride over with him.

Nellie turned to her partner, panic in her eyes, and the young man stuck out his hand for Garrett to shake. "Alex Roman," he said. "Pleased to meet you." Then he put an arm around Nellie. "Now, if you’ll excuse us, I promised this nice lady here another turn." Winking at Nellie, he danced her back out to the floor. "Making him jealous, are we?"

Nellie sniffed. "I hope so. Not that I’d have him back, even if he wasn’t married, but--"

"But it don’t hurt to make him squirm."

Nellie beamed at him. "You’re a bright man, Alex Roman, for all you’re young. I’m Nellie Farmer, by the way. And what brings you to Williams Trace?"

"Well, Miss Farmer, I think I need to tell you the rest of my name before we go on." At her nod, he said, "I’m Alexander Roman Butterwick." He watched her face.

"Cousin to the Bentleys, are you?" Nellie asked. "I thought there weren’t any Butterwicks left."

"I don’t know any Bentleys," Alex said. "I’m John Butterwick’s son."

Nellie stumbled, but Alex was quick-footed enough to avoid disaster. "That surprises you?"

"But John only had the two sons--Percy and Vernon. They were both killed four years ago, around the same time he was. Percy was run through by a slave with a pitchfork, and Vernon got himself shot by a man of God."

Alex’s smile got hard around the edges. "My mama bore me back east twenty-nine years ago, Miss Farmer, just before John Butterwick up and left her."

"To marry Samantha, no doubt." Nellie shook her head. "Men are a faithless lot, meaning no offense. Give them what they want and they up and leave you for someone younger and prettier. I suppose he figured your mama wasn’t good enough to marry once he’d bedded her."

"That ain’t exactly so, Miss Farmer." Alex spun Nellie out in a turn, then reeled her back in. "He married my mama before he bedded her. I’ve been called a bastard from time to time, but it was no reflection on my parents’ married state."

"She died then? Because otherwise--"

Alex smiled again. "She’s alive and well. Mama has had some tough times over the years, but now I mean to claim what’s ours and bring her here to Williams Trace." His lips grimmed up. "She’s had a hard life since John Butterwick left her. I mean to make it up to her. I’m only sorry he’s already dead. I’d have liked the pleasure of killing him myself."

"You and a dozen other folks," Nellie muttered.

As they sashayed around the room, Nellie’s mind was awhirl. John Butterwick, a bigamist, atop all his other sins. And Chauncy and Persephone Bentley no better than squatters out at Johnwick’s Pride.

This was shaping up to be a fine evening after all.

"How can I help you?" she said, when the music ended.

"Drink a glass of punch with me," Alex said, "and tell me all about the folks of Williams Trace."

Nellie beamed. "You’ve come to the right place, honey. I know everything there is to know about the citizens of this town, right down to the color of their underdrawers."

Alex winked. "I’m especially interested in the color of yours, Miss Nellie."

Nellie felt her face get hot. Of course, he was only teasing, this fine looking young man with Butterwick-yellow hair, but a little flirting was more satisfying than a plate full of plum tarts.

And flirting was much harder to come by these days…

Nellie hung out every bit of Williams Trace’s soiled linen she could think of during the course of the sociable--keeping only the Deavers to herself. Two hours later, her throat dry despite three glasses of punch, and her feet aching from more dancing than she’d ever done in her lifetime, she took the arm Alex offered and headed out of the social hall.

Mercy, what fun!

The best part was the look on Garrett Galway’s face every time she happened to glance at him. He’s wondering if he’s made a huge mistake, she thought, beaming.

Or maybe the best part was the looks of envy she’d gotten from all the ladies in the room, for there was no denying that Alexander Roman Butterwick was a fine looking young man with manners that were a credit to his poor, wronged mama.

"Are you warm enough, Miss Nellie?"

"What?" She looked up at the young man beside her. No, the best part of this night has to be Alexander Roman Butterwick himself. My, but he’s tasty! She gave a little skip. "I’m plenty warm, honey. I don’t know when I’ve danced so much and laughed so hard."

"Well, it was the least I could do, you being so helpful and all."

Nellie laughed. "Nothing I like better than talking about other people’s business! And if you mean to turn the Bentleys out of Johnwick’s Pride on their ears, why, I am your friend for life."

He shot a look at her. "In all your talk about the folks of Williams Trace, you haven’t said much about the Bentleys--though I’m pretty sure I’m clear on how you feel about them." He grinned.

Nellie grinned back. "I’m not one to take dislike for no reason, honey, but that woman has rubbed me the wrong way from the beginning. She’s Samantha’s cousin--which makes their taking over Johnwick’s Pride even more of a stretch--but while Samantha Butterwick was as sweet as a pecan pie, Persephone is as sour as one of Charley Fugg’s pickles." Nellie shook her head. "I thought there was something wrong about her from the first. And she lets those kids of hers do what they will--though, come to think on it, the daughter must be close to nineteen or twenty by now, and as sour as her mama, though a sight better to look at." She caught a quick breath, then went on. "And as for Chauncy Bentley, well, I figure he fancies himself the lordly landowner. He rides around with his nose stuck in the air so high it’s a wonder he can see where he’s going. And he’s harsh with the slaves."

"You’re an abolitionist, then?"

Nellie was horrified. "Bite your tongue! Blacks were born to serve and whites to rule, and that’s God’s natural order. But there’s ruling, and then there’s ruling. You can rule with kindness, and have yourself a happy bunch of blacks who look on you like a daddy, or you can rule like Chauncy Bentley, and find yourself staring an uprising in the eyes some dark night." Nellie laughed at herself. "Here I’m talking like I know about being a slave holder, when I’ve never had the price of one to my name! But there are some things you can see, Alex, just by looking close." She looked up at him then. "Being from the east, you’ll be an abolitionist?"

Alex looked back at her and smiled a lazy smile. "Miss Nellie, you’ve warned me you can’t keep your tongue leashed. You really think I’m going to tell you all my secrets?"

"I was hoping," Nellie said, but she laughed as she said it.

They had reached Nellie’s place by now, with its sign that Inge Blum had painted up so pretty a year ago: Nellie’s Bakehouse, Rooms to Let, surrounded by curlicues, and flowers that looked so real you could just about reach up and pluck them.

"Do you have a place to spend the night, Alex?" Nellie asked it without thinking, then promptly went red in the face. He’ll be figuring I’m looking to extend the dancing to some of the under-the-sheets kind! "I have two rooms to let," she said quickly. "Both of them are empty right now, but I had a nice couple stay with me last month. Of course, they’d just gotten married, so they spent a lot of time with the door closed. I didn’t listen at the keyhole, in case you’re wondering." I have to bridle my tongue, she thought with a mental groan. It’s as loose as a saloon gal’s garters! And the truth was that she had listened once or twice. Not at the keyhole, of course, but it wasn’t exactly easy not to listen, what with all the commotion coming from behind that closed door. Best not to think about Jack and Clementine Standard at the moment, else I’m likely to burst a blood vessel. She looked up at Alex anxiously and was relieved to see his smile.

"The fact is, Miss Nellie, that a room would be dandy--but won’t that cause a few eyebrows to go up in this starchy little town? A single man and an umarried lady under the same roof?"

"No one will think anything of it, honey," Nellie said, reality popping her bubble of good cheer. "Not if the unmarried lady is me. Your reputation is safer than buttermilk in a grogshop."

"You’re sure?" Alex took off his hat and ran a hand through his yellow hair. "And you wouldn’t be mistrustful to have a stranger in your rent room?"

Nellie looked up at him, suddenly nervous. He was, after all, a Butterwick. But he smiled down at her and her worries dissolved. How could someone with a smile like that be up to no good? "You’re not a stranger anymore," she said. "You know all our secrets."

"Not all of them," Alex said, reaching around her to push her door open. At her look, he grinned. "I still don’t know the color of your underdrawers."

Nellie gulped, and moved with alacrity to light the lamp so the front room could take on a nice glow. She then turned to the young man, who’d made himself comfortable by leaning against the doorjamb. "Here we are," Nellie said, keeping her voice bright. "You can have your pick of the rooms, Alex. That one’s fancier, if you’ve a mind to live high on the hog, but the bed in the one over here is more comfortable." She literally had to hold her own hands to keep them from fluttering like moths around a lantern. "There’s a water pump just out back if you’ve a mind to wash up, and a thunder mug under the bed in case you need to…uh…"

"Thunder?" Alex suggested with a grin, one eyebrow going up.

Nellie laughed. "Well, we all got to thunder from time to time. You can fill your pitcher from the pump. You’ll find a piece of toweling on the peg behind the door. It’s clean. I washed it after the Standards left. And now, since I mean to be at church bright and early tomorrow morning, I’ll let you have your pick of the rooms, and I’ll bid you good night. The rooms go for two bits a night--but if you’re strapped for cash I won’t press you for it, since they’re both sitting empty anyhow."

"What time is church?"

Nellie had turned toward her room, but she turned back. "Eight of the clock. And if that don’t leave you enough of the night for sleeping, well, don’t fret. Reverend Galway’s sermon will send you off quicker than a lullaby, though not so sweet on the ears. He’s a good man, but dull as a spoon."

"Reverend Galway?"

"Garrett Galway’s brother, and you wouldn’t find two brothers less alike should you search the four corners of the earth, though both of them a trial in their own ways, I’m sure, as men seem to be created that way." Nellie sighed. "Present company excepted, I’m sure."

Alex shook his head. "I don’t know, Miss Nellie. I’m betting my mama would call me a trial of the biggest kind. Much as it pains me to admit it, I’m sure to have a piece of John Butterwick in me, nature being what it is."

"Well, there are good pieces and bad pieces to everybody, honey. John was a harsh man, and arrogant, but he ran a tidy house and turned a profit out at Johnwick’s Pride. I’m sure there were other good things about him that he kept hid. After all, he married your mama, didn’t he? And she must have seen something in him to draw her."

Alex straightened. "Thank you, Miss Nellie. I left my saddlebags over at the livery. I ought to collect them before they walk off."

"That’d be best."

Alex hesitated. "You sure my staying here won’t cause you trouble?"

No end of trouble, Nellie thought, but not the kind you’re thinking about. "I’m sure, honey," she said aloud. "People don’t think of Nellie Farmer that way. I’m quick enough to spread the news of scandal--but that’s only because I never had any to call my own." She mustered a smile. "More’s the pity."

"Well," said Alex Roman, "maybe we can do something about that, Miss Nellie. Shall I put out the lamp when I get back from the livery?"

"You do that, Alex. And pull in the latchstring. Good night."

"Good night."

She felt him watch her as she just about scampered to the door of her room, where she fumbled with the small lamp she kept at the ready. Hands shaking, she got it lit then closed herself in her room, the door making a definite snick.

He’s too charming by half, she told herself as she splashed some water in the bowl from her pitcher, then damped a piece of toweling. Too good-looking, too close-mouthed and too blamed young. You’re acting the fool, Nellie Jane Farmer! He may tease, but he’d no more act on it than Verna Louise would parade down Main Street in her blue silk underdrawers! Nellie sighed. You’re acting like a worse fool than Charley Fugg even thinking about it! So put it out of your head!

She’d unbuttoned her dress at the neck and was pressing the damp toweling to her nape when a light tapping came at the door of her room.

"I’m back," Alex’s voice came through the wood. "I pulled the latch."

"That’s fine," she said, her voice shaking just a little. "Good night to you."

She heard his boots retreat, and the door to the room next to hers creak open. The comfortable bed. Nellie practically groaned. Now was not the time to be thinking of comfortable beds and Alex Roman. She heard through the thin wall as he sat on the overstuffed tick. She heard as each boot was removed and hit the floor with a thud. She heard him shrug out of his leather vest and shirt, then the rustle as he shucked off his pants.

Don’t think about the pants, she admonished herself.

So of course she stayed awake most of the night doing just that.

Good thing there was church in the morning. Nellie figured that if impure thoughts were damning, she had herself a lot of repenting to do come sunrise.

You’re an old fool, she told herself more than once as the hours crept on toward dawn. Been without a man in your life for too long. Think you’re still twenty, and Lawrence Foster hasn’t been distracted by that flighty sister of yours yet. Think you’re still pleasingly plump instead of big as a barn. Think there’s still a chance a fine looking young man like Alex Roman will look at you and see past the years to the young woman inside, who is full of hope instead of too many cookies and pies.

Ha, Nellie thought bitterly.

~ * ~

She finally fell asleep just as the sun was getting ready to peek over the horizon, which meant, of course, that she was late getting up. In fact, she’d have been sleeping still if Alex Roman hadn’t tapped on her door.

"Miss Nellie? It’s half past seven. Do you mean to let me escort you to church this fine morning?"

Nellie rolled over and tried to open her eyes, but gave it up as hopeless. "Half past seven?" she echoed. "Are you sure, honey?"

She heard him laugh and that jolted her eyes open.

"Sure as I can be without a pocket watch," he said.

"I’m almost ready," Nellie lied. "I’ll be right out."

"Mind if I put some coffee on?"

"God bless you," she said fervently. "Put mine in a bucket."

She rolled out of bed and scrambled into her petticoats and Sunday dress, then splashed her face with some water from the bowl on the commode. No time to fuss with her hair, she decided. Just brush it out and twist it up in a knot in the back. She’d just taken the brush to it when Alex tapped on her door again.

"I have your coffee, Miss Nellie."

"Bring it on in," Nellie said. "I hope it’s strong."

"Strong enough to melt the whitewash off your walls," he said as he opened the door. He plucked the brush from her hair and handed her a steaming cup. "You sip at it and let me brush out that pretty hair of yours."

Nellie looked up at him, horrified, but he just grinned at her. "I’ve had some practice with the brushing of ladies’ hair," he said. "Trust me."

She wanted to protest--but she was too tired, and the smell of the coffee was distracting her, so she shrugged, sipped at the brew, yelped, blew on the surface, then sipped again, as Alex drew the brush down the length of her taffy brown hair.

"You have beautiful hair," he said. "You should wear it down your back, Miss Nellie."

She snorted, almost spilling her coffee. "I’m too old to wear my hair down my back. I’m forty, honey, and feeling every year of it this morning."

"Forty isn’t old," Alex said.

"Wait’ll you get there," she said grimly, "then I’ll ask you to repeat that with a straight face."

He laughed.

She took a few more gulps of coffee, then set the cup on the dresser and snatched the brush out of his hands. "I’m obliged to you." Then she reached back and caught up the fall of hair and twisted it into a dollop at her nape.

"It’s a sin to treat it like that," Alex said, "all drawn up tight and tortured."

Nellie plucked up her Sunday hat and jammed it on her head, ramming two lethal hatpins in crosswise. "Sin it may be, but I’m not going to church with my hair down my back like a harlot."

"There’s something to be said for harlots."

"Not around me, honey." Nellie caught up her drawstring bag and prayer book. "We’re late."

"Good thing we’re going to church," Alex said. "We can repent of it right away."

He offered her his arm, and Nellie put her hand at the crook of his elbow. "I’m accustomed to having a few friends to Sunday dinner. That’ll give you a chance to broaden your horizons, Alex."

"I like my horizons broad," he said, and grinned.

Reverend Galway had already swung into his long-winded, monotonous cadence when they arrived, so a lot of heads were happy to turn at the distraction of Alex and Nellie slipping in to the church and taking seats in a back pew. Nellie’s face got hot as her neighbors stared.

I’ve never been on the receiving end, she thought. Not in the twenty years since Lawrence Foster jilted me. And I haven’t acquired a liking for it in the meantime.

She pasted a rapt look on her face and stared at Maurice Galway, whose side whiskers were just about due for a trimming, and pretended an interest as he droned on and on.

She paid no mind to what he was saying, until a stray phrase got past her screen of fatigue and boredom.

"--go with him twain," the reverend said. "If any man offend you, turn the other cheek." He was looking right at Nellie as he said it, then his deep-set eyes skittered over to a front pew, where Garrett and Buttercup Galway sat with Verna Louise and her seven children. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, not yours, and what may seem like a dark cloud is sure to have a silver lining if you only dig deep enough."

There aren’t enough shovels, Nellie thought, and if you’re warning me off your reprobate brother, Reverend, well, don’t bother. I wouldn’t have him on a silver platter with an apple stuffed in his mouth.

The choir sang as the collection plate was passed. Nellie put in two bits.

Maybe they can buy themselves a decent soloist, she thought, missing Bess Murphy and her contralto very much this Sabbath morning.

Bess would have put him in his place.

But whether she meant the reverend or his false-hearted brother, even she was not sure.

"You were right," Alex murmured after the final prayer and another struggling number by the choir. "I feel mighty refreshed."

"Sleep with your eyes open, do you?" Nellie said.

"Don’t want to miss anything."

Alex rightly guessed that Nellie would want to make a quick getaway. Since they were in the back already, they were able to slip out before the Sunday crowd caught up to them. They made a dash for Nellie’s place.

"You could have stayed," Nellie said, unpinning her hat and sailing it through the open door of her room onto the unmade bed. "Chatted up some of the folks, gotten the lay of the land."

Alex grinned. "I got my best source right here, Miss Nellie."

"Yes, well, maybe I’m fixing to retire," Nellie said as she reached for a sack of rice. "I’m not so interested in other folks’ business all of a sudden."

"Liar," Alex said.

"I usually do chicken of a Sunday," Nellie muttered, turning away, "but I guess we’ll just have to settle for the remains of yesterday’s salted beef roast. At least it’ll make a nice, thick gravy."

By the time the leftover roast was in the pot with vegetables all around, and the rice simmering, a knock came at the door.

Alex had shrugged out of his jacket and unbuttoned his vest, rolled up his sleeves, and proved himself handy with a paring knife. Which is a good thing, Nellie thought sourly, as I’d probably just pare my fingers off this fine morning.

"Come on in," she called, elbow deep in pie crust.

Inge peered in. "Are we early, Miss Nellie?"

"No, of course not. Come in, honey," Nellie said.

Her wheaten braids wound like a crown around her head, Inge stepped in. She was followed by a sulky Brita.

"Alex Roman, these are the Blums," Nellie said, but Alex had already set down the knife and wiped off his hands, advancing to take Inge’s rough hand in his.

"What a fine set of sisters," he said, smiling into Inge’s blue eyes. The younger woman blinked.

Nellie felt a twist in her heart.

Inge, however, was pulling her hand away, uncharmed. "My little sister, Brita."

Alex, undaunted, took Brita’s hand, chasing her sulks away like a bobcat after a nice plump hare. "Miss Brita," he murmured.

Brita’s lips got a sultry pout to them that Nellie was tempted to slap right off. "Mr. Roman, what brings you to Williams Trace, if I may be so bold as to inquire?"

Nellie snorted, and Inge threw her an anxious look.

"Why, that’s easy enough," Alex said, turning his smile to Nellie. He winked. "I came to see Miss Nellie."

Brita’s pout became more pronounced. "Perhaps you’ll take in some other sights while you’re here," she suggested.

"I might at that." Alex’s smile widened. "I’m finding that there are a lot of attractions in Williams Trace."

"May I help you with those apples, Miss Nellie?" Inge said quietly, taking up the paring knife.

Nellie tore her eyes away from Alex and Brita. "What? Oh, yes, Inge. That would be fine. It looks like my helper has gotten himself distracted."

But when Inge began to peel the apples, Alex turned back. "That’s my job, Miss Inge."

"Not," Inge said with a sweet smile that made him blink, "any more."

"Miss Nellie!" Abel Galway appeared at the doorway, his eyes desperate. "Cornmeal mush and fatback!"

Nellie, who was familiar with what Verna Louise let pass for Sunday dinner, nodded. "Pull the chairs up to the board, Abel, and then fetch me another pitcher of water."

"Yes, ma’am," Abel said. His eyes darted over to Brita, then away.

And Nellie, who’d known all along it wasn’t Verna Louise’s cooking so much as it was the other dinner guests that had drawn Abel, sighed. Maybe he’d distract Brita from Alex, but she wasn’t counting on it. Abel was a nice young man, big and strong and mannerly. But he was callow, where Alex had that patina of experience on him that drew Brita like a bee to nectar.

"It’s simpler when it’s just women," Inge murmured at Nellie’s elbow.

Nellie snorted. "Simple, maybe, but a lot less interesting." She began to arrange apple slices in the formed piecrusts. "Of course, interesting can be wearing on a body."

"Yes, dull can be good," Inge said. "In fact, I like it better that way."

Nellie, who knew only a little of the younger woman’s story, shot her a look, but only said, "We’ll need the table places laid."

Brita managed to get herself seated between Alex and Abel, preening like a cat as the younger of the two men scrambled to draw her chair out for her. But it was Alex she slid a sideways look to as Abel scooted her chair forward.

Alex missed it, though. To his credit, he’d moved to seat Nellie and was heading for Inge when Abel elbowed past him to do the courtesy.

If ever a meal needed a blessing, it’s this one, Nellie thought with a sigh. "Dear Lord," she said aloud.

Abel, dutiful minister’s son, promptly folded his hands, so that there was nothing left for Nellie to do but turn it into the grace.

"The pies won’t be ready yet," Nellie said, once everyone had eaten their fill of the beef roast and rice, "but I can make us a pot of tea--"

"I will, Miss Nellie," Inge said. "Brita and I will clear the dishes--" Her sister shot her an angry look. "--and wash up. You’ve worked hard fixing us such a nice dinner."

"I’ll help," Abel offered.

Inge smiled at him, but he had his eyes fixed on Brita, who was busy devouring Alex with her eyes as if he was made of whipped cream.

"Fine," Nellie said. "You young people can take over. Cleaning up is the part I like least about cooking. I’ll sit out on the porch. Mind the pies, will you, Inge? They should be done before too long." She made as if to rise, but Alex was at the back of her chair, drawing it out for her.

"I’m too old to be called a young person," he said. "Mind if I join you on the porch, Miss Nellie?"

"You just don’t like doing dishes." Nellie mustered a smile so he’d know she was teasing.

Alex chuckled, which drew a look of outrage from Brita, and offered the crook of his arm to Nellie. "I figure Miss Inge can keep those two kids in line. I’d just be in the way."

Inge’s quiet smile never wavered, but her voice was cool. "You have that right, Mr. Roman."

Alex pretended to shiver. "Back home, that’s what we’d call a snow maiden," he said as he and Nellie settled in the chairs on the porch. "One sister made of fire and one of ice."

"Inge is a good girl," Nellie said. "And Brita--" She hesitated just long enough that Alex chuckled.

"Isn’t?" he finished for her. At her glare, he opted to change the subject. "You set a fine table, Miss Nellie. I don’t know when I’ve eaten better."

"The last time you was home, maybe," Nellie said.

"No, my mama has a lot of talents," Alex said, "but Sunday dinner isn’t one of them." He grinned.

I’m so tired, Nellie thought. If I sit here another minute I’m going to fall asleep with my mouth hanging open, and draw flies. She got to her feet. "I need to wrap up a dinner basket," she said. "Excuse me."

"I’ll help," Alex said, but Nellie shook her head.

"You keep yourself out of trouble, honey. You need a firm hand. Maybe I ought to set Verna Louise Galway loose on you." She shot a look at Alex, but his grin only got bigger.

Brita was letting Inge and Abel do all the work. No surprise there, Nellie thought, but that’s about to change. "Have a wedge of pie, Abel, and then I want you to deliver a dinner basket for me."

Abel tore his attentions away from Brita with great reluctance, but it didn’t take him long to catch on to Nellie’s intent. It wasn’t the first time Miss Nellie had had him carry a basket out to Benjamin Rivers’ old cabin. "I’ll go now," he said with one longing look at Brita, "then come back for pie."

"Suit yourself," Nellie said. "You’ll need to take the wagon. The pie’ll be hot."

"Yes, ma’am. I’ll hitch up while you get the basket put together."

Nellie nodded.

Inge knew where the basket was kept, and pulled it out, lining the bottom with a clean cloth. The leftover beef and vegetables were already in a crock, and there was a loaf of bread ready to be wrapped.

Nellie nodded. "Let’s wrap up a knob of butter while we’re at it." She rummaged in the larder, emerging with a jar of peaches and a dish of honey as well.

"People who can’t feed themselves," Brita said, still in a sulk, "are just lazy and shiftless."

"Don’t be so hard on yourself," Nellie said. "I invited you."

Brita’s mouth dropped open when she finally worked out that she’d been trumped. She was all set to whine about it to Inge--Nellie could see that--but Inge was too busy making herself useful to have caught the exchange.

"The pies should be past ready," Nellie said.

"They’re cooling on the sill," Inge told her.

Nellie walked to the back. "Just right. Thank you, honey. If you ever want to give up laundry, I could use a reliable helper."

"We’re making out fine," Inge murmured, "but thank you."

Nellie looked at Brita. "I’m sure you are--but there’s others around here who need a firm hand--preferably waving a switch at their backside."

This was too much for Brita, who snatched off the cup towel tucked at her waist, and flounced out.

"Brita is just--high-spirited," her sister said by way of defense. "And she’s the pretty one of the family. She deserves a little coddling."

Nellie didn’t agree--not one smidgen’s worth--but she knew better than to press it. "I need to mind my tongue, but I’m just so tired today I can’t keep it in check."

"Too much dancing last night," Inge murmured. "You’ll forgive me if I’m not as full of sympathy as you’d like."

Nellie looked at her and mustered a grin. "Well, you’re right, Inge. I’m grumbling when I don’t dance at all, and grumbling the more when I dance all night. Us old folks just can’t seem to be satisfied, can we?"

"You aren’t old, Miss Nellie."

"Tell that to my eyelids this afternoon, honey. They keep wanting to droop."

Abel appeared at the doorway, hat in hand, and Nellie pointed him to the basket. The second pie had been wrapped in a cloth and set carefully on top.

"I don’t suppose I could have Miss Brita ride along?" he ventured.

"You got that right," Nellie said. "Besides which, she’s gone already. I scared her off. Now, scoot."

"We’re lucky to have meat," Jud said to his children as they stared down at the roasting squirrel, which would provide little more than a mouthful for each of them.

"Lucky," Norman echoed, but without much conviction. He was hungry, sure, but the sacrifice of one squirrel wasn’t going to fill the hole in his empty stomach--and the thought of how many it would take just about curbed his appetite all together.

"We could always move on," Jud said. "No law says we have to stay put."

"And do what exactly?" Shirley asked, hands on her hips. "Sleep under trees again?"

Jud shrugged.

"Well, I like it here," Shirley said. "I like having a roof over my head again--"

"Part of a roof," Norman muttered.

"And a wood floor under my feet," Shirley went on, ignoring him.

"Part of a floor," Norman said anyway.

"We can’t stay here forever," Jud said with a sigh. "It doesn’t belong to us, this cabin, no, nor the land either."

"Miss Farmer says they won’t be back."

"Someone will," Jud said. "You can bet your life on it."

"Life?" Shirley snapped. "What life?"

"Hello!" a voice called through the trees, then Abel and his team appeared around the bend. "Good Sabbath to you, Mr. Deavers! Norman, Miss Shirley."

Norman galloped over to the mules, and stroked their bristly noses. Crazy about animals, Norman was; it about killed him to have to hunt.

"Miss Nellie sends a basket," Abel said, climbing down from the wagon seat. "Sunday dinner. It’s good."

"Again?" Norman’s eyes brightened at the thought of food.

"We don’t need Miss Farmer’s charity," Jud began, but Shirley pushed past him.

"Yes, we do!" She peeked under the edge of the cloth, and her face lit up. "Pie, Daddy!"

Norman’s ears perked up even higher at this, and Jud’s proud stance sagged just a little. "Pie?"

"Apple, by the smell of it." Shirley reached for the basket.

"I’ll carry it in for you," Abel said. "Around back?"

"No, I shored up the porch," Jud said reluctantly. "Just a patch job, but it’ll hold."

The "patch job" was so skillfully done that Abel wouldn’t have been able to tell that the porch had ever been burned or splintered if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

"Set it on the table," Shirley said, practically dancing.

The table. Abel looked around and saw a sturdy planked table against one cabin wall. "But you had no nails," he said, amazed.

"Pegs." Jud turned away, so as not to appear boastful. It was a knack he had, that’s all. Nothing to brag about.

He’d been busy, though. There were three chairs as well, rough hewn, right enough, but steady and cleverly wrought.

"These are something, Mr. Deavers," Abel said as he set the basket down.

Jud coughed, spread his hands in protest. "They’re serviceable is all. Don’t have but a few of my tools left."

Shirley was unpacking the basket, oohing and ahing over each new treasure. "And a knob of butter!" she exclaimed, as if over a silk ball gown. She turned and threw her arms around Abel, hugging him with unbridled joy.

Abel froze.

"This is the best thing that’s happened to the Deavers in ages," Shirley said. "Thank you!" She beamed up at him, then suddenly seemed to realize what she was doing. Dropping her arms, her face as pink as a crepe myrtle in springtime, she backed away. "Mighty kind," she murmured.

"It was Miss Nellie," Abel said when he’d managed to keep from swallowing his tongue. "I’ll tell her you were glad."

"Glad?" Shirley said, perking up again. "Beyond glad!" She turned and slapped Norman’s fingers away from the piecrust. "Wash up, Norm, before you go breaking into that piecrust. And we’ll need to say grace, too," she said, turning to her father.

"It’s fitting," Jud said. Though he smiled with his lips, there was a sadness to his eyes that Abel didn’t miss, though Shirley and Norman didn’t take note.

Or maybe they did, Abel thought in a flash of rare insight. Only maybe it’s not so uncommon as to draw their attention.

When Shirley invited him to stay, he said, "I already had dinner at Miss Nellie’s," but he was looking at the pie with ill-concealed longing.

"You won’t say no to pie," Shirley guessed, and cut him a generous wedge. "Daddy will say grace," she said, but Jud flinched. She didn’t miss that. "I will then," she said, her enthusiasm tamped down a notch. She spoke a few words of thanks, especially for Miss Farmer’s kindness and Abel Galway’s errand of mercy, then the Deavers trio tucked in to the food like they hadn’t eaten a real meal in a month of Sundays.

Which was nearly true. If not for Nellie Farmer, they’d have been reduced to gnawing the bark off the trees like a family of beavers.

Abel got busy savoring every bite of his slice of pie. "Ummm," he said when the last crumb went down, then opened his eyes. "Miss Nellie sure has a way with pie."

"And porches," Norman said.

"You’ll excuse yourself." Jud’s voice was hard.

Norman looked at him in surprise, fork halfway to his mouth.

"Now," Jud said.

"I--I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean nothing by it."

"We don’t repay kindness with mean-spirited talk," Jud said. "It’s bad coin, Norman, and don’t you forget it."

"Yes, sir," Norman said, fork still poised until Jud gave him a nod. As he ate the bite, he looked across at his sister, who’d perched on top of a barrel in place of a fourth chair, and raised his brows.

She shrugged.

"Be sure and give Miss Farmer our thanks for her charity," Jud said when Abel had gathered up the basket and the empty crock and settled himself on the wagon seat.

"It wasn’t charity, Mr. Deavers," Abel said. "It was leftovers."

Jud’s lips twitched.

"She usually does chicken on Sundays," Abel added, "but I’m guessing she was too tired after gallivanting with that Alex Roman at the sociable last night."

"Got herself a beau, does she?" Jud said a little too casually.

Abel hooted. "Miss Nellie? Not likely!" He waved as he drove off, still chuckling at the thought of Nellie Farmer being courted.

And so he missed the look in Judson Deavers’ eyes.

Jud had only met Nellie Farmer the once, but he’d thought about her often in the couple of weeks since. And remembered the feel of her when he’d had his arm around her to help her out of the broken remains of the porch. You been without a woman too long, Deavers, he chastised himself. But there was something about Nellie Farmer that stayed with him--longer than the food from the baskets she’d sent. Yes, and longer than the warmth from the borrowed cabin’s hearth.

Jud shook his head. Foolishness. Hadn’t Doloros taught him anything?

Still, Miss Farmer was gallivanting at a sociable, was she? Well, why not? If she didn’t have herself a beau and all…

Maybe Judson Deavers could offer to cut up some wood for her. With all the cooking she did, she surely went through a lot of wood.

Cheered by this thought, Jud patted his worn vest pocket in search of his pipe, forgetting for a moment that he’d given up the smoking of it for lack of the means to fill it.

Too poor to even smoke a pipe, he thought. What call have I got to be thinking of calling on Miss Farmer? Even if it was just to replenish a woodpile.

He sighed.

~ * ~

Brita and Inge both were long gone when Abel got back to Nellie’s place. Alex was forking up the last bite of pie as Abel walked in.

"Oh," Alex said as if just suddenly remembering.

Good thing I ate pie with the Deavers, Abel thought, or I’d have missed out on it all together. "Where’s Br--uh, the girls gone to?"

"Home," Alex said with a knowing gleam in his eye.

"And Miss Nellie?"

"She’s sleeping, I think," Alex said. "Least, she went into her room and closed the door and I haven’t heard a sound since."

"Sleeping?" Abel said, horrified. "Of a Sunday afternoon?"

Alex shrugged. "She was tired, I guess." He pressed the tines of his fork over the last flakes of crust on his plate, then caught them with his tongue. "That little Miss Brita Blum sure is a piece of work, ain’t she?"

Abel bristled. "What do you mean by that, Roman?"

Alex arched his brows and grinned. "Why, nothing at all, Galway. Not a thing in the world. Now, hadn’t you better run along home?"

Abel smacked his hat against his leg and pushed back out of Nellie’s front door, letting it slam behind him. That Roman fella had no call to treat him, Abel Jeremiah Galway, like a little kid. He wasn’t a kid! He was nineteen! A man! And what had that scoundrel meant by that remark about Brita? Why, Brita was as pretty as a picture and as sweet as--

Here, though, Abel’s thoughts skittered sideways a little. Well, no, Brita wasn’t exactly sweet, was she? But she knew how to look at a man like he was something important, and her lips were as soft-looking as flower buds, just right for a man like Abel Galway to be kissing.

Abel’s thoughts skittered again. Kissing. No point in thinking about kissing Brita Blum, was there, with a rascal like Alex Roman around town? If there was any kissing to be doled out, it was more likely to be going to the yellow-haired stranger. Who, come to think of it, had a familiar look about him, if Abel could just think of where from…

Abel crammed his hat on his head. He might just as well kiss Miss Nellie’s plug-ugly mules if he had a mind to do some kissing. It’d be a long, hard wait until he coaxed one out of saucy Miss Brita Blum. She was as stingy with her favors as a miser was with his pennies.

~ * ~

The fresh hay at the back of Loomis’s livery rustled.

Gene Sherman paused, his bottle of whiskey halfway to his lips.

It was quiet in here most Sunday afternoons, which is why Gene Sherman had taken to hiding his bottle in the livery. It made it handy to stop by for a pull or two between games of checkers with Charlie Fugg. There were enough busybodies who gave the two men grief about playing checkers on a Sunday. All hell would break loose, Gene thought, if anybody found out how partial he’d become to his whiskey.

The hay rustled again, followed by the sound of a moan. Someone was in pain, then. Gene took a step toward the sound.

But the moan was followed by a giggle, and a breathless girl’s voice. "I’m guessing you like that, Joshua Larraby."

"Here, Brita," a boy’s voice panted, "let me just--"

There was another rustle of the hay, then a sharp crack. Oh ho, Gene Sherman thought. That sounds like a girl’s hand on a boy’s face. Young Larraby just got himself nipped in the bud. And by Brita Blum, or I’m a Dutch uncle.

"Ow! What’d you go and do that for?"

"Shall I kiss it for you?" Brita’s voice was sweet. "Make it all better?"

The rustling resumed.

Gene Sherman knew for a fact that Joshua Larraby was supposed to be hitching up the Byrons’ carriage. The Colonel and his wife were calling on Reverend and Mrs. Galway this Sunday afternoon. Young Larraby had to know--just like every other soul in Williams Trace--exactly how hard Mrs. Galway’s cookies were. Hadn’t Gene chipped himself a tooth on one last spring? Larraby must have figured they’d take a powerful long time to chew, and decided to make good use of his free time.

Gene Sherman knew, as Joshua Larraby must know, that the Galways hoped to milk a new roof for the church out of the Byrons’ overstuffed pockets. And that would take even longer than gnawing through a plate of Verna Louise’s cookies.

Meanwhile, it sounded like Joshua Larraby had some milking to do of his own.

Gene Sherman took a long swallow from his bottle, then capped it, stashing it back in its hiding place. Miss Inge would be mighty upset to hear of her sister’s visit to the livery, he told himself. Best keep it under his hat.

That decided, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

The hay rustled some more, and Joshua Larraby moaned louder.

Gene grinned and ducked out of the livery.

~ * ~

Because Nellie had, for all intents and purposes, gone to bed at five o’clock on Sunday afternoon, she woke up well before dawn on Monday morning. It was so dark in her room that she had to light her lamp to wash up and dress by. Too early to be rattling around in the house with a renter under the roof, so she blew out her lamp and stepped out onto the covered walkway that ran in front of her place.

Main Street was more than quiet this time of morning. There wasn’t much mischief to be had around here, even on a good day, but with everybody tucked up in their beds, it was as quiet as a graveyard.

She could make out the bulk of Daniel Loomis’s livery across the way, still closed up tight and quiet for the night, and Charley Fugg’s mercantile up the street, its windows dark and shades drawn. The schoolhouse was way at the other end, right across from the church and parsonage, though she couldn’t see any of them from here, even in daylight.

It was a quiet little town, with just enough dramas to keep an interested body from wasting away of the ennui.

Nellie sighed, and looked over at the Applegate place. It was across the street, just a few buildings closer to the center of Main Street than Nellie’s place was.

Her eyes narrowed.

There was a light on upstairs over at the doctor’s. Someone was sick, then. Nellie’s heart lurched. I hope Bonnie hasn’t taken a turn for the worse, she thought. She hadn’t seen the doctor or his wife at church yesterday, come to think of it. Not that she’d been looking in particular, but she usually took note of things like that, from force of habit.

She didn’t stop to ponder. She just stepped off the planked walkway and made her way across the street to the Applegate place, her heart thudding with a dread she did everything she could think of to squelch.

She tapped at the door to Carlisle’s office, then tried the knob. Locked, as she’d expected it to be, so she crossed around to the back stairs that led up to their living rooms on the second floor.

Foolish to have all these stairs with Bonnie so sick, Nellie thought as she made her way up to the door and knocked. She could hear a sound inside that made her blood run cold: a low and helpless weeping. "Carl," she said sharply, then tried the knob. This one was unlocked, so she turned it and pushed the door open. "Carlisle, it’s Nellie Farmer."

There was another muffled sob, then silence.

Nellie didn’t stop to consider the niceties. She just hurried across the room and pushed the bedroom door open. "Carl, what--?" she began, but faltered to a stop.

The room was illumined by a smoking lamp, which flickered weirdly due to an untrimmed wick. But there was ample light spilling from it, ample enough to see Carlisle Applegate was cradling his wife in his arms. He looked up when Nellie barged in, and she could see his face was puffy from weeping and streaked with tears. "I couldn’t help her," he said. "I couldn’t do anything. Not a damn thing except hold her. I’m a doctor, and I couldn’t help my own wife!"

Bonnie was gone, then. Nellie felt a surge of grief, but she choked it down. "Carl," she said, coming around to the side of the bed on which he was slumped, "you’re a doctor, not God. It was Bonnie’s time."

"What kind of God," Carl asked, his voice cracking, "would take a woman just thirty-five? I need her!"

Nellie didn’t have an answer for that. She just reached out and patted him awkwardly on his arm. "I’m sorry, Carl."

He took a ragged breath, and buried his face in the curve of his dead wife’s neck.

Nellie’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and they stayed like that, the three of them, until the sun began to rise.

"She’s cold," Carl murmured at last.

"Here, then," Nellie said, "let’s tuck her in, Carl." She moved around to the other side of the bed and reached to try and help him ease her down. As she did, she saw something through the gap in the back of Bonnie’s bed gown that made her pause. "Carl, she’s got a huge bruise here at the base of her spine." It was like a fading ink stain, big as a saucer. "Did she fall?"

"It’s not a bruise," Carl said, his voice dull. "It’s a birthmark."

"A birthmark? But the only other time I ever saw a birthmark like that--" Nellie stumbled to a halt, her brain reeling like a drunken cowboy.

Carlisle met her shocked expression with an eerie calm. "It was the night you helped me deliver that stillborn baby two years ago. To the little white girl who’d been raped by a free black."

"I asked you was the baby bruised," Nellie whispered. "Was that why it died, and you said no, mulatto babies are sometimes born with those big faint blue marks on them. But--but how does Bonnie come to have one, Carl?"

The doctor laughed, but for all its softness, it was an ugly sound, full of bitterness. "All these years we kept it to ourselves, my Bonnie and me, and now that she’s gone, the biggest busybody in Williams Trace finds out." He settled the body of his wife down, then tucked the covers around her as tenderly as if she were a sleeping baby. Then he met Nellie’s eyes with his own bloodshot green ones. "Bonnie was mulatto," he said, "light enough to pass. Her mother was a free black from up Philadelphia way. Her father was a Quaker."

"You b-bedded a--a black?" Nellie could hardly get the words out, so nearly did they choke her.

Carl smiled, but it was grim. "Wedded her and bedded her--and found more happiness with her than I thought existed in the world."

"But m--marrying a black--"

"Is against the law," Carl said. "I’m not an idiot. I know that. So turn me in to old Milt Caldwell, why don’t you, Nellie? Have the sheriff uphold the law--but let me bury my Bonnie first before you go flapping that overactive jaw of yours."

"She didn’t look black," Nellie said, practically staggering with the shock. "No, nor talk and act like one neither. She was smarter than any other two ladies in this town put together, and clever with her words."

Carl reached to smooth a curl of his wife’s soft hair away from her face. "You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Nellie Farmer," he whispered, "if this makes any difference to how you felt about my Bonnie."

Nellie backed away.

"Can’t wait to start gossiping, can you? Spreading the word like feathers to the wind." He looked at Nellie, who was at the door by now. "But once the feathers are scattered, it’s harder than hell to gather them back up again."

Carl reached for the bottle at the bedside and, eschewing a glass, took a slug from it. It must have burned, but he seemed to welcome it. "Get to work, Nellie," he said, the challenge in his eyes. "The town’s waiting to learn the truth, and you got nothing better to do than to spread it."

Nellie fled.

"I’m planning to ride out to Johnwick’s Pride this afternoon," Alex said when he stumbled out of Nellie’s rent room, his shirt unbuttoned and his face raspy with stubble. "Do you ride, Miss Nellie?"

Nellie didn’t look up from the batter she was beating, a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, though the morning was cool.

"Miss Nellie?" He touched her arm.

Nellie shrieked and, if Alex hadn’t been there to catch it, the crockery bowl would have slid to the floor. "You scared the stuffing out of me," she snapped.

"I noticed." Alex grinned, but there was no answering twinkle in Nellie’s eyes. "What’s wrong this fine Monday morning, Miss Nellie? You seen a ghost?"

Nellie jerked, and Alex reached to steady the bowl a second time. "Miss Nellie?"

"No such thing as ghosts," Nellie said shortly, then she pushed his hand out of the way and went back to beating the batter.

This time Alex reached out and caught her wrist and held it firmly until she looked up at him. "What is it, Nellie?" he asked, his voice soft.

She blinked at him, as if coming awake, then her face got pink. "I’m sorry, Alex. I--I didn’t sleep well, I guess. Went to bed too early, I guess." She indicated the batter with a nod of her head, since Alex still held on to her wrist. "Thought I’d stir up a cake this morning, in case--I mean, while the air is still cool."

"Do you always add coffee grounds to your cake batter?" Alex asked, interested. "And don’t it come out bitter tasting?"

"Coffee grounds?" Nellie looked down at the bowl, sniffed the contents, then made a face. "Coffee grounds!" she repeated with disgust. "Well, that’s wasted."

"It might be good," Alex said mildly, "a cake flavored with coffee."

"With coffee, maybe, but not coffee grounds."

Alex saw her color was better now, so he released her wrist. "You want to ride out to Johnwick’s Pride with me, Miss Nellie?"

"I don’t ride unless I have to," Nellie said. "I don’t trust anything that outweighs me."

Alex chuckled. "How about if I borrow a wagon, then? Drive you out in style?"

Even a day ago, this would have perked Nellie right up, but this morning she just shook her head. "Not today, honey, but put it off for a few days and I’ll go with you."

"I’m not inclined to wait."

"Suit yourself." She scraped the batter into a slop bucket, and muttered, "Coffee grounds" in such tones of loathing that Alex grinned again.

"Well, I’ll get myself cleaned up, then, and be on my way," Alex said, rubbing his fingers along the golden stubble of his jaw.

Nellie looked up at that, and suddenly seemed to notice his unbuttoned shirt and bare chest. She gulped, and turned away to the rearrange the sack of flour on the floor by the table. "You do that," she said in a slightly strangled voice.

"Sure you wouldn’t like to ride along?" Alex asked in a silky voice. "I wouldn’t mind the company."

"Busy," Nellie said shortly, keeping her eyes averted, "but thanks for the invite."

His chuckle had a knowing edge to it, but, mercifully, he retreated and the door to his room clicked shut.

"You’re a very bad boy, Alex Roman," Nellie muttered as she bent to measure fresh flour into the scraped bowl.

~ * ~

It was mid-morning when Cassie Loomis, wife of the livery owner, burst into Nellie’s place, as full of herself as a fox after a raid on a hen house.

Nellie had never warmed to Cassie much, no, nor her friend Delilah Greenly, either. They were gossips, the two of them, but mean-spirited about it, and always looking for an edge over Nellie, who seemed to find out everything first.

"Poor Bonnie Applegate passed away in the night," Cassie announced with a sparkle in her eye. "The doctor came to my Daniel this morning to ask if he’d hammer him a box to bury her in. I thought you’d want to know right away, Nellie, though I did see a few others on the street to tell before I got to you."

"I’m sorry to hear it," Nellie said.

"Well," Cassie said with a titter, "you can’t be first to know all the time, Nellie Farmer."

"I meant that I’m sorry to hear about Bonnie."

"Oh." Some of the sparkle went out of Cassie. "Well, me, too. She was never what I’d call a bosom friend, but she was nice, and didn’t mind letting the doctor dance with the rest of us ladies even though she had to sit out." Cassie ventured a few step further into the room. "Is that coffee I smell?"

"Added a little to the glaze," Nellie said. "Thought it might taste good." And, from the looks of Carl when I left him this morning, he’s going to need all the coffee he can get in order to endure this next few days, she thought grimly.

"Sounds odd," Cassie said, "but it sure smells good."

"Thank you."

"So I’m wondering why you didn’t find out about Bonnie before I did."

"It’s like you said, Cassie. I can’t always be the first to know."

Cassie accepted this with a nod of the head, then smiled. "I’ll just be on my way, then. I have a few errands to run before I head home to fix Daniel his noon meal. You wouldn’t have any cookies I could buy, would you?"

And pass them off as your own, Nellie thought. Though Daniel Loomis is maybe not as gullible as you think he is. "Not today," she said aloud. "I haven’t got to my regular baking yet."

Defeated at all turns, Cassie soon left.

Nellie set the cake back for the glaze to harden, then whipped off her apron. Time to track down Abel and set him to an errand that had been stirring at the back of her head all morning long.

~ * ~

Nellie pressed a golden eagle into Abel’s hand. "Tell Mr. Deavers to make it as pretty as he can," she said for perhaps the twelfth time. "I’ve spelled everything out on this paper--"

"If you don’t trust me to get it right," Abel said, unoffended, "then ride out with me, Miss Nellie."

"I have baking to do," Nellie said, then changed her mind. "I’ll get my hat."

She wrapped up a loaf of bread while she was at it, then bustled into her room and dug through the old chest at the foot of her bed until she found what she was looking for. This too was wrapped.

She had a feeling Judson Deavers could do up a pretty marker for Bonnie Applegate’s grave. Clever with his hands, she was guessing. The marker would have to be of wood, of course, which wouldn’t last as long as stone, but it might ease Carl’s grief a little if his Bonnie had a special marker in time for the burying. There was something helpful about having a place to return to, something solid to weep over, that went a long way toward healing the heart.

~ * ~

Jud was using an axe to knock the bark off a piece of a tree when Abel and Nellie drove up, but he let the axe drop when he saw who it was.

"Mr. Deavers," Nellie said, springing to her feet before Abel had even slowed the team down. This meant, of course, that she promptly tottered, and would have fallen out of the wagon if Abel hadn’t grabbed a handful of her skirt to anchor her just in time.

Nellie ignored his red face, and his assistance, making a second attempt to scramble from the wagon. This time, Jud was in place to give her a hand down.

"Miss Farmer."

"Mr. Deavers, I come to ask a favor." She beamed up at him, and Jud blinked. "Of course, I’ll pay you for it, as it’s more of a job than a favor--though the favor part comes in asking you to drop everything and get to it right away--which, if you can’t, I’ll of course understand, but I sure hope you won’t say you can’t. So, can you?"

"Can I what, Miss Farmer?"

"Why, carve me up a grave marker," Nellie said. "Didn’t I say? And isn’t that just like me?" She shook her head. "So, can you?"

Jud hesitated. "I’d like to say yes, Miss Farmer, but I don’t have my wood-working tools by me anymore. They were swept off down river some time back, and all I have left is my axe here."

"You made that table and chairs with an axe?" Abel said, his mouth flopping open. "Why, all most folks would end up with was kindling if they’d set out to make a table with an axe."

Jud shrugged. "You use what you got."

"Never mind the tools," Nellie said. "I got tools. Abel has some big tools under the seat of the wagon, and I carried my daddy’s carving tools along just in case you had need of them. Get the toolbox, Abel," she said to the younger man, then reached for one of the bundles she’d wrapped up before leaving her place. "Here you go, Mr. Deavers."

Jud carefully unwrapped the bundle, revealing a loaf of bread.

"Oh," Nellie said. "Sorry. I just carried that along to be neighborly." She got the other bundle, but Jud was still looking at the bread. "I’m sorry to say it isn’t fresh baked," Nellie said. "The bread, I mean. I’ve gone and mixed things up--but that isn’t so uncommon as you might hope--and haven’t got to my regular baking today. But the fact of the matter is, Mr. Deavers, that the grave marker is more important."

Jud rewrapped the bread reluctantly, which Nellie took to mean he was going to refuse her. "I brought a golden eagle to pay you by," she said. "Won’t you at least think it over?"

"I’ll make the marker," he said, surprised. "Of course I will, Miss Farmer, and there’s no need to pay me for doing it."

"Yes, there is," Nellie said. "I’ll pay you, or I’ll find somebody else to make it for me." She stuck out her chin, stubborn as a balky beast, and after Jud took a long minute to study the angle of it, he nodded.

"I’d be obliged for the work, Miss Farmer."

"Here." Nellie thrust the other bundle at him, catching the wrapped bread as it fell from his hands.

This second bundle Jud unwrapped more slowly, like what was inside might hurt him somehow. But it was just a smallish wooden box, holding a collection of awls and blades with well-worn handles.

"They’ve been setting a long time," Nellie said, her voice anxious, "but they’ll still work, won’t they, Mr. Deavers?"

"They’re fine, Miss Farmer." Jud swallowed, as if there was something big in his throat. "Just fine." It had been too long since he’d held wood-working tools such as these.

"Where do you want the toolbox?" Nellie asked.

"Over there," Jud said vaguely. He was looking at the carving tools with more hunger than he had the bread, if such a thing was possible.

Abel lugged the big box over to the porch, and set it down with a thud. "Where’s Miss Shirley? And Norman?"

"What?" Jud looked up. "Oh, they went to look for something for supper." He smiled briefly. "After the fine meal you sent us yesterday, Miss Farmer, we’re back to our usual fare."

"Nuts and berries, I’m guessing," Nellie said. "I should have brought out more than bread."

Jud stiffened. "We’re getting by, Miss Farmer."

"Don’t get all stiff-rumped on me, Mr. Deavers. My business is food. My calling in this life is to make sure there’s plenty of it to go around--with plenty left over for me to fork into this pie hole of mine. I’m always pushing it at people, whether they’re hungry or not. Don’t take it personal. Why, Abel here used to be as skinny as a bean pole until he started working for me. Isn’t that right, Abel?"

"Yes, ma’am," Abel lied after he caught on to the meaning behind her fierce stare. "Skinny as a bean pole. My mama isn’t much on cooking," he added, this time truthfully. "We get regular meals, but they ain’t nothing to sing about."

"So if I show up with food," Nellie said, "it’s just my way of saying hello, and don’t reflect a bit on whether there’s a need or not. Now, to the marker. Can you get started right away?"

Jud nodded. "I already have some cured wood I can use. If that suits you?"

"If you say it’ll do," Nellie said, "then I’ll take your word on it, Mr. Deavers. The only kind of log I’m expert on is the cake kind, with jelly spread on it before it’s rolled up and then whipped cream dolloped on top."

Jud swallowed.

Nellie noticed. "But no one can work on an empty stomach," she said. "Have a slab of bread, Mr. Deavers, while I show you the words." Not waiting for his reply, she tore a chunk of bread from the loaf in her hands and thrust it at him, rewrapping the rest. "Bonnie was a--a fine lady," she said. "Sharp and lively, with lots of dark curly hair and a smile that looked like it was made of secrets. Not that she had any, mind you," she added quickly. "Or at least, no more so than any of the rest of us. She had heart, Bonnie Applegate, but I think that heart wore out on her. She died last night. Only thirty-five, and her husband cut up about it, as you might imagine, especially him being a doctor and not being able to save her." Nellie shook her head. "It’s a sad business, Mr. Deavers."

"I understand."

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and nodded. "I believe you do."

"I’ll get started right away," Jud said. "I’ll have it ready for you in the morning."

Nellie let out a puff of air, relieved. "Eat before you do," she advised as Abel hurried to help her back up into the wagon. "My motto is ‘food first’," she said, then laughed. "As you can plainly see. We’ll be back in the morning, Mr. Deavers. And I thank you."

"Tell Miss Shirley--and Norman--that I said howdy," Abel said as he walked around the wagon and climbed up on his side.

"I’ll do that," Jud said, but he was back to looking hungrily at the carving tools, even as he took a bite of Nellie’s bread. The bread distracted him, but only for a moment. Long enough for him to lift a hand of farewell as Abel got the team moving.

"Mama will be looking to get you to take charge of the funeral foods," Abel said as he and Nellie headed back towards Williams Trace. "You’d do the whole town a favor if you take it on, Miss Nellie. Else Mama might just stir up a kettle full of cornmeal mush and plop it into bowls."

"I expected to," Nellie said. "I’ll need you to stop by Charley Fugg’s for a couple of sacks of meal and one of beans. Sugar, if he’s got it, honey if he don’t."

"Yes, ma’am," Abel said, then glanced back over his shoulder.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of that sharp-tongued Shirley, Nellie guessed, whether he knew it or not. She’s a pretty gal. Young as Brita, but solid. Nellie’s lips curved into a brief smile. Well, at least some things appear to be looking up.

~ * ~

"Where have you been?" Verna Louise Galway demanded when Abel slowed the wagon in front of Nellie’s place and scrambled to hand Nellie down.

"I drove Miss Nellie out to--" Abel began, but his mother cut him off.

"I’ve been wanting to talk to you about food for the funeral," she said to Nellie, "and no one has seen hide nor hair of you. And what in the world are you thinking of having that yellow-haired stranger staying with you?"

"I’m thinking of the money I’m bringing in from the use of my rent room," Nellie said. "Never mind, Verna Louise. I’ll get to work on some baked goods for after the funeral, and maybe a pot of soup, but if you want a meal, you’d best spread the word that a covered dish will be expected. I can’t feed the whole town with just twenty-four hours of notice. I’m good, but not that good."

"Yes, I’m aware of that," Verna Louise said, her voice tart. "And isn’t it a shame Bonnie didn’t have more consideration than to let us know she was planning on up and dying like that?"

Nellie’s eyes filled.

"I didn’t mean that the way it sounded," Verna Louise said, which was as close as she ever got to apologizing.

Nellie shook her head. "No, I know that. I just can’t hardly believe Bonnie’s gone. I knew she wasn’t strong, but I never expected her to die."

"She was strong, Nellie," Verna Louise said. "In the ways that count. The doctor will be lost without her. He’ll need some special attention."

Nellie turned away. "Not from me," she muttered. "Now, I’d best get to work."

Nellie’d long since had a detached kitchen built out behind her place. Not only did it keep the house itself from becoming unbearable in summer, but it allowed her to cook much larger quantities than her regular brick hearth and oven inside. It was an extravagance, maybe, as a few of the ladies in town had been known to murmur, but she noticed there were plenty who were grateful for it when it came time to eat the baked goods that came out of there.

Alex was nowhere to be seen when she set to work.

Probably out charming the stockings off the Bentley women, she thought. They’ll take him to their bosoms and he’ll move out to Johnwick’s Pride, and before a cat can lick its whiskers, he’ll be running the place and the whole lot of them will be out on their ears.

And rightly so, if he truly was the firstborn, legitimate son of John Butterwick.

It was full dark by the time Nellie set one last big batch of bread to rise. She’d lit the lantern a good two hours back, and carried it with her now into her house, which was as dark and quiet as every spinster’s home ought to be come nine o’clock.

It struck her afresh how much she missed the company of Bess and Phyllis, good women who, in their own ways, had managed to chase away the gloom of an empty house. They’d been more than renters, both of them. They’d been friends, and they’d each left a hole when they’d gone that all the parade of renters in the four years since had not been able to fill.

"What you lack is a family," Nellie told herself. But there was no sense in whining about it, was there? And families were not always that cradle of support and love that a body might wish for anyhow.

It had been almost twenty years since Nellie’d clapped eyes on her sister, Penelope. So maybe she’s lost some of her shine by now, Nellie thought. Not that there was any chance of Nellie making the trip over to Standard’s Point to find out, not after the ill turn Penelope had served her back then, but she couldn’t help but wonder from time to time if her sister was happy with the prize she’d stolen all those years ago.

Love was a gamble, winner taking all.

And that’s just the way the world works, Nellie thought. Lawrence Foster had chosen the fancy china, and left the crockery on the shelf where it belonged.

Garrett Galway had done the same, only he’d opted for lamb over ewe.

Nellie thought she’d accepted her lot in life, but the truth of it was that an empty house just about sucked the heart right out of her, and an empty bed after a day like this was about as welcome as frolicking naked in a swarm of mosquitoes.

She thought of Carlisle Applegate, who was now a widower. But he’d made his opinion of her pretty clear, hadn’t he? And what man, after a woman like Bonnie Applegate, mulatto or not, would turn to a woman like Nellie Farmer?

She thought, too, of Alex Roman, who was mostly made up of charm, with maybe a thin vein of substance running through him somewhere. But he was young and handsome, more suited to a girl like Brita Blum, who needed a man with a healthy sense of self-preservation.

Nellie tried to picture herself with Alex Roman--in his arms, her lips pressed to his--but it only made her snort and shake her head.

It went against nature, a plain, dumpling shaped woman with a looker like Alex. And for all his charm, she wasn’t sure he’d fill that empty hole she’d carried around in her all these years anyway.

Gene Sherman and Charley Fugg, both bachelors, she’d long ago considered and dismissed. Gene was harmless, but as bland as milk toast, and lately, a secret drinker besides. She’d sniffed that out not three months ago, uncharacteristically keeping it to herself. And Charley Fugg was several apples short of a pie, seeing as how he thought he stood a chance with a sweet young thing like Lacey Lovell.

As if a pretty girl with dozens of suitors would ever consider an old coot like Charley!

No, Nellie thought as she closed the door to her bedroom and reached for her nightgown, the best I can hope for is plenty of folks looking for rooms to let. That, and filling up my days with good works, like Verna Louise.

Not a happy thought, that.

Then there were the nights--which didn’t bear consideration.

Nellie tucked herself in and blew out the lamp.

Williams Trace was like any other town. On the day of a funeral, there was an air of guilty festivity in the streets: regular work was suspended, necessary chores were hurried through, people took extra pains with their hair and dress. It was only slightly more sober than a hanging, of which there’d been none anyway for going on seven years.

Alex had turned up sometime in the night, for he stumbled out of Nellie’s second rent room when she carried in the last of the fresh-baked bread and set it with the other goods on the table.

"Smells like heaven in here," Alex said as he shrugged into his shirt.

"And how would you know?" Nellie asked tartly. "I suspect you lack even the vaguest idea of what heaven ought to smell like."

Alex grinned. "Well, it wouldn’t smell like cheap booze and loose women, would it?" He inhaled. "And neither does this." He reached for a raisin cookie, but Nellie slapped his hand away.

"They’re for after the funeral. You want something to eat, there’s corn dodgers."

Alex made a face. "You’re a cruel woman, Miss Nellie. Seducing a man out of his bed with temptations like these, then turning coy and trying to satisfy the beast with corn dodgers."

"You may be a beast," Nellie said, "but my corn dodgers are nothing to sneer at."

"No, ma’am," Alex said, his voice meek. "I’m sorry. Thank you."

Nellie laughed. "Keep up that kind of talk, honey, and I’ll think you’re somebody else."

She brought out a dish of butter and set it next to the pan of dodgers. Alex reached for one of the crumbly yellow lumps of bread, and slathered it with butter.

"Did you get out to Johnwick’s Pride?" Nellie went on. "Talk the Bentleys into moving out and leaving it free and clear for you and your mama? I’d have liked to have seen Persephone Bentley’s face when you told her who you were."

"Well," Alex said, his mouth full, "I didn’t exactly tell her."

"You didn’t have to," Nellie said, "looking so much like John and the boys as you do."

Alex swallowed, and grinned. "Well, now, Miss Nellie, that was the interesting part. Mrs. Bentley didn’t seem to mark the resemblance." He took a gulp of the coffee Nellie handed him. "In fact, after taking tea with her and the marriageable Miss Ursula, during which time I asked a lot of very clever questions, I’d be willing to bet that the Bentleys have never in their lives clapped eyes on my unlamented father, no, nor on his second wife either."

"Well, they had to have known Samantha, honey," Nellie said. "She was their cousin."

"Was she?" Alex asked, reaching for another corn dodger. "Says who, Miss Nellie?"

"Why, they did, Alex," Nellie said. "As soon as they turned up and--" She faltered to a stop and her eyes got wide.

"And got a good look at Johnwick’s Pride, I’m guessing." Alex took another gulp of coffee. "Standing there all forlorn and untended--"

"Well, it wasn’t untended," Nellie said. "Colonel Byron sent his overseer by three times a week to keep the slaves working. It was in fine shape when the Bentleys claimed it."

"All the more reason for them to think they’d landed in the clover." Alex had tipped his chair back on two legs, but now it thumped to the floor. "After an afternoon at Johnwick’s Pride, Miss Nellie, I’m betting that the Bentleys are no more cousins to Samantha Butterwick than you are. And what Persephone Bentley does to a tea tray is downright immoral besides."

"But they moved right in," Nellie said. "Lock, stock and barrel--though, come to think on it, they didn’t have much by them when they turned up."

"All the more reason for them to think they’d died and gone to heaven, finding a place like Johnwick’s Pride just waiting for someone to claim it."

"But there’ll have been a will somewhere, surely?" Nellie said. "They’ll have been named somewhere, legal enough, else how could they have just moved in?"

"That," Alex said, lifting his coffee cup and toasting Nellie with it, "is what I aim to find out."

"Over to Standard’s Point, there’s a fellow who’s studied the law," Nellie said. "A couple who came through here a month or so back made mention that he’d come and thought to stay on, seeing as how there’s none others to be had nearby. Maybe you could talk to him, Alex."

"Maybe I could," Alex said. "Not quite yet, though. I have a little more sniffing to do around the Bentleys’ hindquarters before I lift my leg. But when the time comes, Miss Nellie, I’d like you to come along with me to Standard’s Point. You’ve got a good eye and a sensible way about you."

Nellie blanched. "You can talk me into a lot of things, Alex Roman, with that golden tongue of yours, but I’m not sure I could make the trip to Standard’s Point without some powerful persuading."

"I can be very persuasive," Alex said, his mouth curving in a smile that made Nellie go weak in the knees.

"Yes, well, try it on someone else, honey," Nellie said shakily. "I have a fierce dislike of Standard’s Point."

"A rowdy place, is it?"

Nellie snorted. "Nothing like. But there’s a face there I have no wish to see."

"Another thwarted suitor?" Alex teased her. "Why, you’re a wicked woman, Nellie Farmer, leaving a trail of broken hearts wherever you go."

Just one, Nellie thought, though once broken, it’s been leaking on me ever since. "You’re one to talk of broken hearts, Alex Roman."

"I don’t break ‘em," Alex said promptly. "Because I never make a promise I don’t intend to keep."

"Which don’t bode well for the Bentleys out at Johnwick’s Pride."

Alex grinned. "You got that right, Miss Nellie."

Nellie cocked an ear. "There’s Abel with the wagon. I have a small errand to run, honey. Keep your hands off the cookies and leave the cake to cool, Alex. I mean it! I’ll be back in no time and then you can help me carry these things over to the church yard. The funeral is at ten."

"I’m not overfond of funerals."

She rolled her eyes. "It’s not the funeral, Alex. It’s the food afterwards. People let down their guard at a funeral. Ply ‘em with enough rich food after, and their jaws’ll unhinge like someone gave ‘em a good freasing."

Alex rubbed the back of his hand along his stubbled jaw and sighed. "Guess I’ll shave, then, and get out a clean shirt." He stood. "You have a civilizing effect on a man, Miss Nellie. I haven’t been this washed and groomed in a month of Sundays."

"It’s good for you," Nellie said, tucking a few cookies and a loaf of bread into a napkin-lined basket. "My Grandma Dayton used to say you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. I’d think it’d run the same with soap over sweat."

"Under the right circumstances," Alex said, a twinkle in his eye, "sweat can be mighty appealing."

"I’m guessing one of those circumstances wouldn’t be a funeral." Nellie’s voice was tart as she pinned on her hat.

"Depends on who’s sweating."

Alex followed Nellie out and handed her up to the wagon seat, smiling in a proprietary way that visibly set Abel’s teeth on edge. This seemed to amuse Alex, who took the time to give Nellie’s hand an extra squeeze before passing her the basket he’d carried out for her.

Abel started the team moving with a jerk. "Sidewinder," he muttered.

"What’s gotten into you, Abel Galway?" Nellie asked.

"I don’t trust that fellow," Abel burst out. "That Alex Roman! He’s smooth and pretty-faced, and he treats you different. It ain’t decent."

"Different how?" Nellie asked, interested.

"Like you was his flirt or something," Abel said. "Pressing on your hand like you was some sweet little miss--when you are old enough to be his mother!"

"Not quite," Nellie said, feeling just about like someone had upturned a bucket of cold river water right over her head.

"He did the same thing with Brita," Abel went on, oblivious, "and Inge. Why," he added, outraged, "he’s the kind of fellow that would flirt with his own grandmother!"

"And I’m betting it’d be the most fun she’d had in years," Nellie muttered. At Abel’s look she said, "Never mind, honey. He doesn’t mean any harm by it. That’s just his way. And a woman likes to be flirted with, Abel. Reminds her she’s alive." She chuckled at the expression on his face. "Yes, honey, even a fat old spinster like me."

"Miss Nellie," Abel said earnestly, "you ain’t old!" He paused. "Well, not exactly."

Nellie sighed. No wonder Brita wouldn’t look at Abel Galway twice. He was as green as a potato sprout.

~ * ~

Jud gave a last rub to the grave marker. The carving tools had felt clumsy in his hands after all this time, and the work he’d done was, in his eyes, seriously flawed, but there was no time to begin again.

"The flowers are pretty, Daddy." Shirley was at his elbow, looking down at his work. "But it’s sad. She was too young."

"Sometimes death can be a blessing," Jud said, his arm going around his daughter. "When the pain gets bad enough, dying is the only thing that can end it."

Shirley jerked away from him. "There’s other ways to work through your pain."

Jud knew they weren’t talking about Bonnie Applegate anymore. He met his daughter’s eyes without flinching until she looked away at last. "I know that," he said quietly. "Now." Though he hadn’t always known it, had he?

She came back to him then, threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. "We’ve worked through the worst of it, Daddy. We’ve found us a place here. I’d like to go in to town one of these days, maybe spend that golden eagle Miss Farmer means to pay you. Buy a tin pail," she said so wistfully that Jud laughed.

"I thought you meant you’d like to spend it on gewgaws and ribbons."

She gave him a look of disgust. "You can’t haul water in a ribbon, Daddy." She pulled away. "Look! There’s Abel!" Her cheeks got pink and she patted her hair self-consciously.

Jud noticed the usual two braids had been exchanged for a single one that hung down her back. It made her look older. Grown up. Primping, was she? Jud wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

"And Miss Farmer," Shirley added quickly. "Hey, there!" She crossed to meet the wagon as Norm dropped everything to go straight to the mules’ heads.

"Hey, Miss Shirley," Abel said. "We come to fetch the marker. Funeral’s at ten. My father preaches a fine funeral. Not that I’m bragging," he added quickly. "It’s just a fact."

"If he’s anything like you," Shirley began, but Abel blanched.

"No, he ain’t, Miss Shirley. Nothing like."

The marker was not too heavy. Jud carried it over and reached up to set it in Nellie’s lap. "I haven’t done carving in awhile," he said awkwardly. "I’d have done it over, but there wasn’t time."

As she looked down at Jud’s handiwork, Nellie’s eyes filled with tears. "It’s beautiful, Mr. Deavers."

Jud cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. Thank you, Miss Farmer."

"No," Nellie said, "thank you." She smiled at him so warmly that his ears got hot and he shifted from one foot to the other like a truant schoolboy. This seemed to break the spell. Nellie coughed, looked back down at the marker, rubbed her thumb along the raised "B" of Bonnie’s name. "We’d best get back," she said. "Funeral’s at ten and I have food to carry over to the church yard. Bread and cake and such."

"Cake?" This drew Norm’s attention away from the mules for just an instant.

Nellie grinned at him. "I didn’t bring you a cake, Norman, but there’s bread and some cookies."

"Cookies?" Norm breathed as if speaking the name of a sacred relic.

"We’re obliged, Miss Farmer," Jud began, "but--"

"But nothing," Nellie said. "Abel, pass him the basket." She dug in her reticule and pressed a golden eagle on Jud. "I wish I had more to pay you, Mr. Deavers. This marker is worth more than gold to me."

Jud wanted to refuse the money. It felt wrong to take it when he could see the flaws in his work practically leaping out from the wood, begging for attention. But there was that look in Shirley’s eyes that begged for a tin pail. She’d done without womanly things for a long time on his account. Not that a pail was exactly womanly, but still… He pocketed the coin.

But I don’t have to accept the basket, he thought. Then he saw Norm, who was just about drooling at the thought of cookies. Who was Judson Deavers to deny his son an offered treat? Norman had sacrificed a lot, too.

So he took the basket and smelled the bread and it warmed his soul as only the smell of fresh-baked bread can.

"I should have brought a cake," Nellie was saying. "Next time."

"Cake is a fine thing," Jud said, "but it’s that bread of yours makes me go weak at the knees, Miss Farmer."

Nellie went pink at the compliment. "It’s just bread," she said. "And now we’d best go. Thank you again, Mr. Deavers."

He lifted the basket in a sort of low-slung salute. "No, thank you."

"Maybe you could come someday soon and do some work on my place," Nellie said.

"It would be my pleasure." Jud, looking into her eyes, forgot for a moment just how much the thought of town discomforted him.

The wagon started with a lurch.

"Good-bye, Miss Shirley," Abel said. "Good-bye, Norman."

Jud watched until Abel had turned the wagon around and headed back towards Williams Trace, and only after it was completely out of sight did he turn the basket over to Shirley.

Nellie took the marker from Abel at the top of the stairs. "Go ahead on now, honey," she said. "See to the team. I’ll be along shortly and then you can help me haul the food over to the church."

"Are you sure--?" Abel began, indicating the marker.

"I can manage," Nellie said. "Run along, Abel."

"Yes’m." He turned and thudded down the stairs, and once he’d reached the bottom, Nellie turned back, took a deep breath, and rapped on the wooden door.

"Go away," a muffled voice said. "Gawking doesn’t start until ten."

"Carl," Nellie said, "you open up, you hear?"

"Ah," said Carlisle Applegate, flinging the door open, "It’s nosy Miss Nellie--come to taunt me with what you mean to do once my Bonnie is buried, have you?"

"No one’s taunting," Nellie said.

Carl was a lot worse for the wear this morning, especially considering it was just a scant hour to funeral time. His green eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them puffy. There was several days’ growth on his normally clean-shaven chin, and his sideburns were untrimmed, giving his face the scruffy look of a ne’er-do-well. He appeared to have slept in the clothes he was wearing--if, indeed, he’d slept at all--and he reeked of spirits. His hand was trembling as he reached to shove uncombed hair out of his eyes in order to better glare at her.

"I brought you something," Nellie said.

"I’m not hungry." Carlisle made to close the door, but Nellie refused to budge.

She rolled her eyes. "Why is it the first thing that occurs to everybody when I come calling is food? Why, the size I am, people should be thinking I ate it all myself on the way over."

The doctor shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You didn’t bring food?"

"Food isn’t what you need this morning, honey," Nellie said frankly. "What you need is a good wash, a shave, and about a gallon of strong black coffee."

"What I need," he muttered, "is for you to get out of my face, Nellie Farmer."

"I will soon as I’ve done what I come for."

He crossed his arms and scowled. "And that would be?"

"Here." Nellie thrust the marker at him.

"What’s this?" The doctor’s hands went to steady it, even though he stubbornly refused to look down at what he held.

Nellie didn’t reply. She just waited--long enough that Carlisle finally looked down. She saw him study the marker as if he didn’t understand, puzzle over it as if it were written in some kind of foreign language. And she saw when it finally sank in, because his eyes filled with tears and his face crumpled like an old handkerchief.

"Wh--where’d you get this?"

"Had it made," Nellie said. "I thought you might like something more than just a couple of sticks bound into a cross. Bonnie was…one of a kind, Carl. You aren’t the only one who’ll miss her."

His fingertips were bumping gently over the raised letters of his wife’s name, over the intricate border, the detail of flowers in the bottom right hand corner. "I can’t do this, Nellie," he said at last, his voice as broken as china on stone. "I can’t make myself go down those stairs and face them all. They’re wondering why she died, why the town doctor couldn’t save his own wife." His hands tightened around the edges of the marker. "Fact is, I am too."

"No one is blaming you, Carl," Nellie said. "Bonnie was never what anyone could call sturdy--at least, not in body. No one will be judging you today, honey. They’ll just be there to grieve with you, shore you up, shed some tears with you."

He took a shaky breath and clasped the marker to his chest. "Thank you for this, Nellie."

"Yes, well, I don’t mean for you to sit up here in the dark hugging on it," Nellie said, making her voice brisk. "You need a good cleaning up, Carl."

But he just stood there at the door, tears seeping from under his closed eyes, the marker in his arms, until Nellie sighed and gave him a firm push in the right direction. "You just need a little help getting started, don’t you, honey?" she said. "How about I give you a hand with scraping those chin whiskers off, Carl? We can tidy up your sideburns a bit, too, and then I’ll bring you some coffee while you get washed up."

She steered him inside, where she found the sitting room as dissolute as he was. Empty bottles littered the tabletop, though his aim had been bad, for one lay shattered on the floor as well. There was a layer of dust beginning to settle on Bonnie’s knick-knacks, and Nellie saw through the open door that the bed looked as rumpled as it had the night Bonnie had died. The stench of an unemptied thunder mug hung in the air, mingling with the sour smell of whiskey and the musky odor of unwashed body.

Combined, the smells just about turned Nellie’s stomach. She sat him in a chair, then moved to open windows, hoping for a stray breeze to blow through and clear the air.

"I’ll get your shaving things, honey," Nellie said. She crossed to the bedroom, her eyes going to the place where Bonnie had drawn her last breath, then she turned away to find the shaving mug, straight razor and strop. There were just a few inches of water in the pitcher on the commode, and that water was stone cold. So she guessed she’d have to go down to the doctor’s office, put on a kettle, and heat some up. It wouldn’t do for the doctor to show up at his wife’s funeral looking like he’d tried to cut his face to bloody ribbons.

It was short work, but the doctor had gotten his hands on the razor by the time she got back upstairs with the heated kettle, and she misliked the way he was staring at it.

She snatched it away from him. "Don’t be a fool, Carl."

He sighed, his eyes closing again. "Too late."

She wet a towel and held it to his face, then worked up a good froth in the shaving mug. After lathering him, she used the razor, scraping away the brown stubble as carefully as she’d done for her father when she was just a girl of ten.

Elias Farmer had been a drinker, too, and come Sunday morning, his hands were never quite steady enough to manage a razor. Penelope had always pretended not to see, had looked the other way, but not Nellie. Nellie had shaved him, bullied him into washing and dressing, filled him with black coffee, and hauled him off to church as if a weekly appearance there would make up for the sins of the other six days.

Her hand was steady now as she shaved Carlisle Applegate, then, for good measure, gave his hair a trim with Bonnie’s sewing shears. "You’ll need to wash," she said at last. "No offense, Carl, but you smell like a hound dog that’s been rolling in something dead." As soon as the words were out, she wished she could bite her tongue. But, rather than setting him off, it made his lips twitch.

"I have been."

"Well, I know you have, honey. So I’ll add a little hot water to the pitcher and you get yourself cleaned up while I go down and get the coffee."

"Coffee?"

She was encouraged by the flicker of interest in his voice. "A whole pot of it. I’m going to go get it, Carl, while you wash up. You hear me?"

"How could I not?" Carl asked, but it was said without rancor.

Nellie took her time downstairs, setting a tray with a cup and the pot, and hoping that the doctor would manage to tidy himself up in her absence. She didn’t fancy taking a washrag to him, though she’d do it if she had to.

She was relieved to find him washed when she got back upstairs, though the woolen trousers he’d changed into were rumpled, and he was about to shrug into the same filthy shirt she’d found him in. She set the tray down and plucked the revolting thing out of his hands.

"Got to have a shirt," Carl protested.

"Coffee first," Nellie said. "I’ll find you a better one than this."

She found a clean shirt hanging on a peg behind the bedroom door. The doctor had managed to gulp a cup of coffee already, and the dazed look was leaving his eyes, though the sorrow replacing it was harder to bear.

"You’ll need food," Nellie said, "but there’ll be plenty at the church. Here." She helped him into his shirt, buttoning it up for him, then unearthing a tie which, thanks to Elias Farmer’s unsteady hands, she was able to tie deftly around the doctor’s neck, despite her spinsterhood. "You’ll get through this, honey," Nellie said when he’d finished off a third cup of coffee and shrugged into his jacket. "It feels bad now, but with time it’ll get better."

"It will never get better," Carl said. "Thank you for trying, Nellie, but you don’t know what the hell you are talking about."

"I know more than you think."

"I’m sure that’s true. You always do." He reached to run his fingers through his newly shorn hair, but stopped just in time, and smoothed it down instead.

"You may think I’m just a nosy old spinster poking my fat nose in where it don’t belong," Nellie said, "and you’d probably be right, Carl. But time is a powerful tonic, and it’s eased a few of my own pains over the years."

The doctor looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "I’ve spoken harsh to you, Nellie, and you’ve helped me anyway. I’m obliged."

"Forget it, honey," Nellie said. "I have. Why don’t you come with me over to my place, Carl, and let me cut you a slice of bread? I have some soup simmering."

"Food won’t cure what ails me," Carl said. "Time won’t either. But thank you, Nellie."

She turned to the door, hesitated, and the doctor laughed, though it sounded forced to her ears.

"I promise not to take a razor to my throat," he said, "at least until after the funeral."

"I hid it," Nellie said. She opened the door, then turned back. "It’s coming on to ten, Carl. You’d best get over to the church."

"I’ll be there." The note of irritation was back in his voice. "You don’t have to mollycoddle me, Nellie." Then his lips twitched. "At least, not anymore. I’m much improved from an hour ago."

"On the surface at least," Nellie agreed, "but you’re still ornery where it counts, honey."

Abel and Alex, between the two of them, had carried all the food over to the church in Nellie’s absence, and she blessed them silently as she took just a minute to tidy up before heading over to the church herself.

"Where have you been?" Verna Louise hissed when Nellie finally came in. "The tables are all a-jumble, beans next to cake, and bread stacked like cordwood."

"It’ll be fine," Nellie said.

The pine box at the front of the church was closed, which was all that could be done after two days. There were flowers heaped around and on top of it, for a body couldn’t help but ripen a bit in death, though, thank goodness, the spring weather was still mild so it wouldn’t happen as fast as it might have done come summer.

The church was already crowded by the time Carl showed up. He looked presentable, Nellie thought, which was good, and sober, for which she thanked God. This would be hard enough without a drunken widower.

Reverend Galway drew the doctor to the front pew, parting the folks already seated there like they were the Red Sea and he was Moses. He seated Carl dead center--Where everyone can get a good look at him, Nellie thought. Why do we do ourselves this way? Why can’t we have a little dark quiet corner to hide in when we’re grieving?

"I’ll help with the food after, Miss Nellie." Inge Blum wedged herself in next to Nellie. "Mrs. Galway doesn’t have your way with setting things out."

"My fault," Nellie replied in an undertone. "I’ve got the folks of Williams Trace thinking I’m the only one who can manage." She put a hand to the place where her waist should have been. "I guess I got that air of authority."

"Have you seen Brita?" Inge whispered. "I couldn’t find her."

Nellie shook her head.

"Brothers and sisters," Reverend Galway intoned from the front of the church, "we are gathered here today to say farewell to our dear, departed Bonnie Applegate, who has left this vale of tears for a happier and more beautiful home on high."

"Lord have mercy," Nellie murmured. "It’s going to be one of those." She sneaked a quick look at the doctor, afraid of what she might find, but his head was bowed, exposing that just-trimmed place at the nape of his neck, and he seemed calm, at least from the back.

And it was "one of those"--Maurice Galway extolling the virtues of the doctor’s wife, and throwing in a few extras as if the reality didn’t quite meet his standards of perfection, droning on and on about her love of the town--which was a guess, at best--and how, having given her soul to Jesus, she was surely standing before Him now, made perfectly white through His infinite grace.

Perfectly white, Nellie thought. That ought to sit well. She sneaked another look at the doctor.

At last, the service ended. The choir warbled their way through Rock of Ages, inspiring nothing in everyone’s hearts so much as a fervent gratitude that they only sang four of the verses.

The coffin was carried out to the cemetery behind the church, and lowered into the fresh-dug hole waiting for it. A handful of dirt was pressed into Carlisle Applegate’s hand, which he sprinkled in on top of the box, as Maurice Galway took the opportunity to say a few more words. Then Abel and a few others of the young men of Williams Trace shoveled the disturbed earth back into place.

When it was done, Carl carried the carved marker over and, kneeling in the dirt, settled it at the head of Bonnie’s grave.

Most of the mourners had already spilled out to the church yard to fill stomachs kept empty out of respect for the solemn occasion. There was a social buzz going on when Nellie showed up and made a beeline to the haphazard plates, intent on filling one for Carl, whether he wanted it or not.

"Hungry, Nellie?" Cassie Loomis asked. Her giggle had a nasty edge to it, but Nellie ignored her.

Reverend Galway was drawing Carl away from the cemetery, bringing him around to the front of the church, intent, it seemed, on forcing the doctor to put his wife’s death behind him.

It looked like folks wanted to swarm the doctor--hungry to taste a bit of his grief, rather than wishful to ease it.

Nellie elbowed past them and thrust the filled plate at him. "You need to eat, honey," she said.

"My granny opined that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach," Charley Fugg said from behind her, "but you’re barking up the wrong tree, Nellie Farmer."

"Shut your pie hole, Charley Fugg," Nellie said. Her face went bright red, but her voice was cold.

"Doc Applegate would no more turn to you for comfort," the storekeeper went on, "than he would try to milk a bull, so don’t get your hopes up. Give the man time to grieve, you nosy old sow."

Nellie was sorry she’d passed the plate of food to the doctor already, because she suddenly had the urge to smash it square into Charley’s homely face.

"Thank you, Nellie," Carl said, though he only glanced at the food on the plate.

"Just eat it, honey," Nellie advised, then shoved her way past the storekeeper, who was grinning like the idiot he was.

"Shameful how she’s trying to push herself on him," Delilah Greenly said in a carrying whisper, "and his wife just buried."

"Don’t judge everyone else’s motives on what you’d be doing in their place, honey," Nellie snapped as she passed by the younger woman.

Alex, she saw, was chatting up the Bentley daughter, Ursula, who was as pinch-faced as her mother, though there was a color to her cheeks that told Nellie she was no less immune to Alex’s charm than was anything else in skirts.

Maybe I’d best switch to britches, Nellie thought wryly.

Alex saw Nellie, touched Ursula’s hand, and left the young woman with a smile. "Where you been all morning?" he asked Nellie.

"Thank you for helping Abel with the food, honey," Nellie said, ignoring his question. "I’m beholden to you."

"Well, I figure if I mean to call this place home, I’d best learn to pitch in." He grinned. "You making a try for the doctor, Miss Nellie? That’s what I’m hearing."

Nellie glared at him. "His wife just passed away," she said. "I may be a busybody, but I’m not as vulgar as everyone seems to think I am."

"I don’t think you’re vulgar," Alex said, just as a hand came down on Nellie’s shoulder.

She turned and looked up into Carl Applegate’s face, which was showing considerable signs of strain. "I’m going home," he said. "I just wanted to tell you I’m grateful."

"Did you eat?"

His hand dropped. "Some. But I was already pretty full of coffee."

Nellie studied his face. "You’ll need some sleep. Let me run on ahead and put some fresh sheets on your bed."

"No." Carl scowled at her. "I’ll put fresh sheets on when I’m good and ready, and I don’t need any more of your help." He seemed to regret his tone, for he softened it. "I couldn’t have done this without some prodding, Nellie, but now I just want to be left alone."

She nodded. "Promise you won’t go doing anything foolish, Carl?"

He tried out a smile, which she took as agreement, but as he walked away, his shoulders were drooping.

"My advice is to wait a week or so," Cassie Loomis said when he was out of earshot. "You’ve staked your claim for the whole town to see, Nellie, but you need to give the poor man a chance to catch his breath before you start chasing him in earnest."

"Dang it all, Miz Loomis," Alex said with an easy smile. "And here I was hoping it was me Miss Farmer meant to chase in earnest."

Cassie looked at him, then Nellie, then back at him, obviously not sure whether to take him seriously or not. Alex smiled back at her blandly, then lifted Nellie’s hand to the crook of his arm. "Excuse us, ma’am."

"Everyone’s talking about me," Nellie muttered as they moved away. "I don’t like it."

"You can dish it up, but you don’t like having to swallow it," Alex said with a grin. "At least your suitor and his child bride have skipped town."

"Thank the good Lord for that," Nellie said. "Now if only Persephone Bentley would skip along after them."

"Nellie, dear," someone called.

"Speak of the devil," Nellie muttered. In a louder voice, but no more enthusiastic for all that, she said, "Hello, Persephone, Chauncy. I didn’t know you and Miz Applegate were close."

Persephone Bentley murmured something as token response, but even with her husband’s presence at her elbow, her eyes were turned hungrily on Alex. "My Ursula says we must have you to supper out at Johnwick’s Pride this evening, Mr. Roman."

"Why," Alex said, patting Nellie’s hand, "we’d be delighted, Miz Bentley. Wouldn’t we, Nellie?"

Persephone opened her mouth to protest, but appeared to reconsider at the last moment. Instead, she made an agreeing noise before yanking her husband--who had the air of a man well pickled for all it was a Tuesday morning--by the arm and turning away, her pinched face pinching even more.

"Well, that’s all of them but Quinton," Nellie said. "He’ll be by to flirt with you any minute now."

Alex shuddered.

Quinton Bentley was stocky, like his father, with too-thin lips like his mother, but of all four Bentleys, he was at seventeen the best looking cookie in the batch. Add to that the fact that his daddy had taken over Johnwick’s Pride--a spread big enough to put a flutter in the bosom of many a local girl’s mother--and hungry females of all ages had something to smack their lips over.

"You won’t desert me," Alex said.

"Get one taste of Persephone’s cooking," Nellie told him, "and you’ll wish I’d desserted you."

"I’ve eaten her tea cakes," Alex said, and grimaced.

"You’d get further along without me, honey," Nellie warned him. "Persephone and I don’t see eye to eye. She bought one of my pies last summer and passed it off at the town fair as her own work."

"That seems in character," Alex said. "I hope it took a blue ribbon."

"Of course it did," Nellie said.

Even though the guests of honor had departed, one way or the other, the town folks stayed on until all the food was gone. Then, as people are wont to do, most of them slipped away just before it was time to clear up the remains of the meal.

Nellie hadn’t spotted Brita Blum all morning, which was a surprise. She’d figured on the girl hanging around, maybe even helping out, and hoping for another try at Alex Roman.

Must have other fish to fry, Nellie thought. Then, Poor Inge! It’ll break her heart when her sister finally crosses the line and can’t step back.

Inge was already rolling up her sleeves and tying an apron over her church dress.

Verna Louise was red-faced and flustered. "You go ahead on in," Nellie told her. "You took the burden of setting everything out. I’ll see to the clearing up." When the reverend’s wife protested, Nellie grinned. "I got help."

Abel, with a few wistful looks around for the missing Brita, was turning to stack dirty plates, while Inge began filling washbuckets. But when she started to haul two of them across to the table where the sheriff’s wife was already scraping bits of food off into a slop bucket, Alex Roman was right there to take them from her and carry them instead.

"I won’t argue," Verna Louise said to Nellie. "I’m more tired than I can say. And it does a mother’s heart good to see Abel pitching in. There were times when I despaired of him."

"He’s a fine young man," Nellie said. "And now I’d best get to work as well. Don’t want the reverend’s wife to think me a slacker." She paused. "Unless it would get me off next time."

Verna Louise sniffed. "Not likely."

Eunice Caldwell was already washing up, so Nellie carried a stack of clean toweling over and began to dry.

"Burying such a young woman is a grievous thing," Eunice said, her mouth grim.

"Burying any woman is a sad thing," Nellie said, "young or old, when there are so many men we’d have been better off without."

"You got that right, Nellie Farmer," the sheriff’s wife replied, "though decency forbade me to say it myself."

"Glad to be of service." Nellie caught the direction of Eunice’s eye. It was a wonder the sheriff didn’t melt down right there on the church lawn, with all the dissatisfaction his wife was shooting in his direction.

A real testament to the joys of marriage, Nellie thought. Maybe it’s a blessing to be single.

She shot a glance at Alex Roman, who was grinning at Inge, his yellow hair shining in the midday sun, the muscles of his shoulders cording up as he moved one of the big tables.

On the other hand, a man had his uses…

And you sure aren’t thinking about table-moving, Nellie Jane Farmer! She could feel her cheeks getting hot, as if someone could overhear her thoughts, so she ripped her eyes away.

"It feels like we’ve had ourselves two Sundays this week," Nellie grumbled as Alex boosted her up to the wagon seat late that afternoon. "Sunday clothes, piles of dishes, and now a drive out to Johnwick’s Pride when I’d rather be tucking myself up for a nap."

"I appreciate your sacrifice," Alex said gravely, but his eyes were twinkling.

"Well, at least I don’t have to cook supper," Nellie said. "On the other hand, Persephone’s cooking will probably kill us both. Your mama will be grieved at your passing, Alex."

"It’ll take more than a charred piece of chicken to send me to my Maker."

"You hold that thought," Nellie said as he climbed up beside her and took the reins. "I’ve set out the wild mint for tea when we get back. If that don’t work, I’ll borrow your gun."

"To kill the cook?"

"To put us out of our misery."

Johnwick’s Pride had always been as neat as a pin. John Butterwick had been a firm taskmaster, dealing sternly with sloth, whether it be found in a slave or one of his own sons. Nellie always secretly figured that Samantha had died of his disapproval. She didn’t know every last detail about the deaths of the Butterwick sons and their harsh patriarch--sniff though she did to try and find out--but she was willing to bet they’d gotten their just reward.

As Alex drove the wagon up the drive in front of the big house, Nellie saw that Johnwick’s Pride had taken on an air of neglect. It looked shabby around the edges somehow, like the ruffle of a petticoat left to drag in the dust. The slave who finally showed up to handle the team was hollow-eyed and thin-looking.

"Appears like the slaves don’t like Persephone’s cooking any more than the rest of us," Nellie muttered.

Alex’s eyes had a glint in them that gave his face a hard edge. "Bentley’s a fool," he said in a low voice, but no less harsh for all its lack of volume. "The cattle look as bad as the slaves, and the fields reflect it. He’ll run this place to the ground if given half a chance."

"Well, let’s not give it to him," Nellie said.

Ursula Bentley flung open the front door as Nellie and Alex approached, her eyes all for the young man. She looked more like a weasel than ever today, her eyes scurrying up and down Alex as if they were squirrels and him a tree full of nuts. "You came, Mr. Roman! I’ve been on pins and needles wondering if you would."

Alex touched the brim of his hat. "How could I refuse when your mama put the invitation to us so nicely, Miss Ursula?" He drew Nellie forward, but Ursula ignored her, taking Alex by his free arm and drawing him in.

This got awkward at the doorway, as Alex refused to let go of Nellie, and Ursula was equally determined to hang on to Alex.

"Oh, for heaven’s sake," Nellie muttered when they’d managed to wedge themselves in, three abreast, through the front door. I wish I’d stayed home. This was pure foolishness. She wasn’t going to play at wishbone-pull--with Alex Roman going to the one left with the larger half.

But Alex was laying on the attentions--for Ursula’s benefit, Nellie guessed. He settled Nellie on the most comfortable settee in the front room as if she were made of spun glass, a little touch here and there as if he couldn’t bear to let her too far out of his reach. Then he plopped himself right down next to her as soon as Ursula had perched on the nearest chair.

Ursula was an unlovely young lady whose face would have been much improved by a genuine smile. Her hair was wound into torturous curls and her dress was fussy, as if ribbons and ruffles could soften the sharp corners of the girl beneath. She tried to keep her voice breathy, but an undercurrent of petulance kept surfacing, like a log being carried down river.

"Mother and Father mean to host a party soon," she said to Alex. "I hope you’ll come." She attempted to bat her lashes, but it only made her look like something was stuck in her eye.

Some of us, Nellie thought, are not equipped to play the flirt.

Alex smiled over at Nellie, touched the back of her hand with one finger. "We’d be pleased as punch."

"But we didn’t mean to invite--" Ursula, to her credit, couldn’t quite make that last leap into total disregard for good manners. She swallowed the rest of her sentence, but it sure looked like the unspoken words might choke her.

Nellie, meanwhile, was doing a slow burn. It was one thing to come along in support of Alex’s quest to gain his inheritance, but this was something else again. He was using her as a shield to protect him from the ambitious Miss Bentley. She misliked it and was about to say so when she suddenly remembered Garrett Galway. Alex had been willing to step right in and protect her, hadn’t he?

Well, all right then, she thought. But I don’t have to enjoy it.

Chauncy and Persephone showed up at last, oblivious to the rudeness inherent in their having left their invited guests to the daughter of the house. Of Quinton Bentley, there was no sign.

"Glad to have you," Chauncy Bentley said, reaching to shake Alex’s hand. There was a hesitance in his grip that was at odds with the welcoming set of his mouth. His palm was damp and his handshake weak.

Alex smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "And you know Nellie Farmer," he said, drawing her forward.

Chauncy nodded in her general direction, then appeared to forget her. Persephone Bentley frankly glared.

Well, Nellie thought, if I’d had any appetite before it would surely be nipped by now.

And that was a good thing, she realized when they were shown into the dining room, because the meal was as sad and sorry a thing as she’d ever clapped eyes on.

"So, how did you learn of your good fortune?" Nellie asked abruptly over slices of lopsided pie and bitter coffee some time later. "Your inheritance of this fine place?"

Persephone, forced to turn her attention to the other woman, mustered a smile. "Why, it was you, Nellie. We had come to visit dear Samanthy and John--traveled all this way in hopes of a nice reunion--and when we stopped in Williams Trace for directions, it was you who told us the sad history of our dear cousin’s untimely demise."

Alex threw her a look that pretty much said "thanks a bunch".

Nellie, not for the first time, cursed her runaway tongue. "So you had no idea they were gone," she said, "and that they’d left this whole place to you."

"No idea," Persephone said.

"None whatsoever," Chauncy put in. "Naturally, we were thrilled. Not at poor Mandy’s passing, of course--"

"Oh, was that her pet name among family?" Nellie asked sweetly.

"What?" Chauncy looked startled.

"I just wondered if Mandy was a nickname for your cousin. We always knew her as Samantha."

Persephone’s eyes narrowed. "Of course it was. You know how families are. Now eat your pie, Nellie."

"Oh, I don’t think I could take another bite," Nellie said, though, in truth, she’d not eaten even one. "In fact, if Alex doesn’t mind, it’s been a long day what with Bonnie’s funeral and all, and I’d like nothing better than to head on home."

"Of course," Alex said, barely able to conceal his enthusiasm.

"But Mother said we’d have music after dinner," Ursula said with an unattractive pout. "I meant to play the piano for you, Mr. Roman."

"A pleasure I’m sorry to have to miss," Alex said, "but Miss Nellie is right. It’s late."

"But you haven’t even met Quinton," Persephone protested. She looked around as if she expected her son to pop out from behind the sagging draperies.

"Where in thunder is that boy anyway?" Chauncy muttered. "He’s gone more than he’s here lately. I can’t hardly get a lick of work out of him."

Judging by the condition of the place, this held true for everyone at Johnwick’s Pride.

"Thank you for inviting us," Alex was saying. "We appreciate your hospitality."

It was Chauncy who walked them to the door as Ursula set up a whine like a hungry mosquito. It ended abruptly, like the aforementioned insect, with a ringing slap. Apparently, Persephone had a quick and accurate hand.

It didn’t seem to bother Chauncy that neither of the females in his family was appearing in a pleasant light. Out of sight, he must have been thinking, out of mind. But apparently his son’s absence plagued him. "Quinton ought to have been here. It was ill done of him not to show when he knew we was having guests."

"Well," Alex said, his hand firm on Nellie’s elbow, "another time, maybe."

Chauncy nodded, his mind already elsewhere.

Maybe on that bottle of sherry Nellie guessed he had tucked away in John Butterwick’s office.

The door closed on them. "That was short and sweet," Nellie said. "I didn’t even have time to find a reason to head upstairs and rummage through their things."

Alex laughed. "You wouldn’t have dared."

Nellie sniffed. "It would’ve been a sight more interesting than what was going on downstairs. I’m bone-weary, Alex Roman. It was hard work cleaning up after the funeral this afternoon, but it was harder still to sit and listen to Persephone Bentley’s prattle. She means for you to marry her daughter, you know."

At Alex’s horrified expression, Nellie chuckled. "If she don’t gobble you up herself, honey."

"Speaking of gobbling," Alex said, "I’m starving." He handed Nellie up into the wagon, then climbed up and took the reins.

"Persephone’s no better a cook than she is a liar," Nellie said. "Though she might be a dandy matchmaker." She chuckled again at Alex’s reaction. "Well, it would solve your problems, you know. Marry the daughter of the house and move yourself and your mama right on in."

"I am not marrying Ursula Bentley," Alex muttered as they headed back towards town. "No, not for twenty houses and a king’s ransom besides. If I was to marry, it wouldn’t be for gain."

"What would it be for, if you don’t mind my asking?"

Alex slid a look over at her and grinned. "You’d ask anyway, even if I did mind."

Nellie shrugged, but she was smiling. "You got me pegged, Alex. Prying is the only fun I have these days. So what would you marry for, honey, if not for profit?"

"I’m not saying I ever would," Alex reminded her, "but if I did, Nellie, it would be for love."

His smile curled up her toes. The thought of what it would mean to be loved by a fellow like this--rascal that he was, and flirt besides--made Nellie’s mouth go dry. Best change the subject before she embarrassed herself.

"I’m sorry," she said abruptly. "I’d forgot it was me put the Bentleys on to the scent of the place. Sometimes I get to talking and it’s like a pot left too long over the fire. It gets to bubbling until everything spills over and causes an unholy stink."

"Never mind," Alex said. "We’ll get it straightened out. It’s a shame to let a place like that go downhill any more than it already has."

The moon was up and the sky scattered with stars as the team pulled the wagon back towards town.

"I’m thinking I need to see that lawyer you were telling me about," Alex said. "I don’t think the Bentleys will be budged without the arm of the law backing me up."

"It’s not too far to Standard’s Point," Nellie said. "I can tell you how you need to go."

"You can go with me," Alex said, smiling over at her. "After all, this whole thing is partly your fault."

"You’re the worst kind of sidewinder, Alex Roman," Nellie said. "You know just the thing to say to make me wish I’d never got you to dance with me that Saturday night."

"But think how dull your life would have been," he said.

"Honey, dull is beginning to look pretty good about now."

~ * ~

"Where have you been?" Inge demanded, more sharply than she usually spoke to her sister, as Brita let herself into the room they shared behind the laundry.

Brita shrugged, but there was a smile on her lips that Inge had the sudden unaccustomed desire to smack right off. "It’s full dark," Inge pointed out. "You’ve been gone all day. You didn’t even come to Mrs. Applegate’s funeral. Where have you been?"

Brita shrugged again and reached for her nightgown. "Brush my hair for me, will you, Inge? You’re good with hair."

Inge was more tempted to give the flaxen curls a good yank, but she reached for the brush. "It’s really tangled, Brita. Where have you been?"

But Brita only smiled.

The other fellows around Williams Trace were good enough for practice--but Quinton Bentley would own Johnwick’s Pride one day--and a big, fancy place like that was worth all kinds of sacrifice.

She hadn’t hooked him yet. But there was still time. Brita Blum had her eye on Quinton Bentley--yes, and a few other of her parts today, as it happened--and it was only a matter of time before he was hooked, and hooked good.

No need to give up on the other fellows around town just yet, though. A girl needed to keep her options open--else she might just end a shriveled-up spinster at the age of twenty--like poor Inge.

"That feels good, Inge," Brita murmured aloud as her sister gently pulled the brush through the long flaxen curls.

There was no pleasure to compare with the one of having your hair brushed by someone with careful hands.

~ * ~

Tired as she was, Nellie mixed up some dough and set bread to rise before she went to bed. Alex had gone out again as soon as he’d seen her home, and hadn’t returned by the time she blew out the lamp on her bedside table and pulled the coverlet up.

Just as well, she thought. Maybe this means I can get right to sleep.

Instead, she found herself listening for his return.

~ * ~

Despite her short ration of rest, Nellie was up early the next morning. The bread was ready to bake, so she popped the loaves in first thing, then set about putting together the ingredients for a huge batch of raisin cookies. Abel was set to head out tomorrow to peddle some goods to smaller settlements up and down the river, and Nellie always made good money when she sent her cookies along with him.

But cooking was a chore this morning. It seemed like the worst kind of drudgery to be creaming butter and sugar, adding oats and flour and salt, stirring in raisins and chopped pieces of pecan. It was all she could do to keep from flinging her spoon across the room and throwing her apron into the fire.

Restless, she thought. I’m just restless. These last few days have been more excitement than I’m used to. But mercy! I am plumb sick of making cookies!

The loaves of bread came out, the pans of cookies went in, and Nellie set her hand to making piecrust.

It was almost noon when Alex stumbled out of his rent room. "Smells too good," he complained. "Woke me up."

"Better late than never, honey," Nellie said. "Though if you think I feed folks who spend their nights catting around town, then you got another think coming."

Alex reached for a cookie, but Nellie whacked his hand with her wooden spoon. "These are bound for selling."

"Sell one to me now," Alex said. "I’ll pay extra."

Nellie snorted. "I wrap them up by the dozen. If you take one, I’ll be short."

"Then sell me a dozen," Alex said. He fished in his pocket for two bits and slammed the money down on the table. "I’ll eat them all right now."

Nellie pocketed the coin and slid a plate over to him.

"You expecting a lot of folks to come in hungry for cookies today?" Alex asked.

"No. I’ll wrap these up and send them along with Abel. He takes the wagon out and peddles things up and down the river. The smaller settlements don’t have a mercantile the way we do--and folks in town make up little gewgaws to send along with him. Sachet bags and hemmed handkerchiefs, sunbonnets and that kind of thing." Nellie sighed. "It was my friend Bess’s idea to carry my baked goods out of Williams Trace. Gave us both a--" She paused, trying to remember exactly how Bess had said it. "--a broader scope for our talents. She’s gone now."

Alex stopped chewing. "I’m sorry. What did she die of?"

"She’s not dead!" Nellie’s mouth made a round little "o", then she heaved a second sigh, bigger than the first. "No, but if she was, it would have been of boredom. Williams Trace wasn’t lively enough for her, I guess." She reached to finish crimping the crust of the pie. "Though it’s been a lot duller since she’s been gone."

"A troublemaker, huh?" Alex bit into another cookie.

Not as much trouble as you, honey, Nellie thought, but for once, she kept a thought to herself. There, the pie crust was done--and pretty it looked, too.

"That going to be apple?" Alex asked around a mouth full of cookie.

"Pecan."

"You’re making a pie with pecans? But they got no juice."

"Don’t need juice."

"Pies need juice," Alex insisted. "That’s what makes ‘em pies."

"Just wait," Nellie said. "About an hour from now I’ll be asking you if you’ve changed your mind."

Where the cookies had been an aggravation, she found putting the pies together satisfying, and even unbent enough to pour Alex a glass of milk from the pitcher on the table.

"So you’ll be ready to go with me to Standard’s Point tomorrow?" Alex said when the last of his cookies was gone.

Nellie shook her head. "Not tomorrow, honey. I can’t. Maybe later this week. Or early next."

"You’re stalling," Alex said. "Why? You’re acting like Standard’s Point is full of plague and outlaws."

"Worse," Nellie said. "My sister lives there."

Alex pressed for more, but Nellie shook her head and made a big show of concentrating on the pies.

It was Verna Louise, pushing the door open without even bothering to knock, who broke a silence that had gotten as stiff as well-beaten egg whites. "Nellie, have you seen Doctor Applegate this morning?"

Nellie’s lips tightened for a moment, then she shook her head. "I mean to go over later today and give him a hand with his place. It wants tidying."

"That’s what I went to do," Verna Louise said, "but he isn’t there and the place looks like it’s been ransacked."

"It looked pretty bad when Bonnie died," Nellie said. "What you saw is probably just the result of Carl working out a bit of his grief."

Verna Louise seemed to settle a little. "Well, if you say so, Nellie. I always count on you to keep me apprised of all the news. But it concerns me that he isn’t there this morning. And, much as I hate to tell tales, the place reeks of spirits."

"He must have gone home from the funeral to tie one on," Nellie said. "Here." She untied her apron. "I’ll walk over with you, Verna Louise. Alex, I’m counting on you to pull the pies out when they’re done."

"Me?" Alex recoiled as if she’d asked him paint his lips ruby red and dance in silk stockings.

"Put yourself to use," Nellie said. "The crust will be a golden brown and the center will be firm. Don’t let them blacken. I’ll be back shortly."

"But--" Alex began, but she was already out the door.

"Nellie," Verna Louise said as they walked across the main street towards the doctor’s place, "it doesn’t seem exactly proper for you to have that young man staying with you."

"I’ve had men stay in my rent rooms before," Nellie said. "Alex is no different."

"But have you danced with them?" Verna Louise asked. "Have they squired you around town like suitors, flirting openly and saying outrageous things in the company of others?"

"It don’t mean a thing, Verna Louise Galway." Nellie’s cheeks were red. "That’s just Alex’s way. He’s like--like a son to me."

Verna Louise snorted.

"A younger brother, then," Nellie said, "or a rascally nephew." She mulled it over. "Maybe a cousin." She shot a look out of the corner of her eye, and mustered a grin. "Second cousin. Once or twice removed."

Verna Louise primmed up her lips.

"You can publish the news," Nellie said. "All I’m doing is renting the man a room. You aren’t thinking straight, Verna Louise Galway! Would a young man like Alex have anything to do with a woman old and fat as me?"

This seemed to make sense to the other woman, which soured Nellie’s mood completely. It was irritation that sped her up the back stairs at the Applegate place, and unreasonable hurt that got her pushing the door open with more force than was necessary.

"Whew!" Verna Louise was right. The place looked ten times worse than it had when Bonnie died, and the smell was like a shot-up saloon. "Maybe he’s making a house call," Nellie said dubiously. "I don’t see his doctor bag anywhere hereabouts."

"Maybe it’s downstairs in the office," Verna Louise suggested. "I’ll go check."

Nellie wrestled windows open in the two rooms and looked around at the disaster. You promised not to do anything foolish, Carlisle Applegate. There was no sign of blood--though there was evidence of too much drinking on an empty stomach splattering the wall behind the thunder mug.

"It’s here," Verna Louise said, puffing as she remounted the stairs. She held up the doctor’s black leather bag. "He won’t have gone on a call without it."

Nellie had since found the clothes he’d worn to the funeral in a crumpled pile on the bedroom floor. And Bonnie’s picture, which had always stood on the little table next to the bed in its gilt frame, was missing. "He’s gone," she said.

"Well," Verna Louise said, "I should have checked on him yesterday afternoon. But I thought I’d leave it to you. You seemed to be handling the managing of him just fine." She bit at her lip. "In fact, I stopped Cassie and Delilah from heading over because I thought he’d be better off without their interference."

"I wasn’t managing him," Nellie said. "Why, everybody in Williams Trace must think I’m the worst busybody that ever drew breath!" She paused, took a look at the other woman’s face. "I can see what you’re thinking, Verna Louise Galway, without you having to say a word. You think it of me, too."

"You take an interest," Verna Louise said carefully. "That’s a virtue, Nellie."

Nellie snorted, then turned to survey the wreck of the room. "Well, right now I’m taking an interest in getting this place tidied up. I don’t know when he’ll be back--or if--but we can’t leave it like this, Verna Louise."

"No, we can’t." The other woman’s smile was grim. "We’ll see how eager Cassie and Delilah are to be of service when it comes to emptying thunder mugs and washing vomit off walls."

Nellie was already pushing up the sleeves of her dress. "They’ll pry," she said. "I don’t want them here, Verna Louise. It wouldn’t be right, them pawing through his pain like that, then spreading the story of it all over town."

"You’re right," Verna Louise said with a sigh. "The man’s entitled to keep his grief private. I’ll draw some water. There are rags and soap downstairs."

It was hard work, requiring a lot of elbow grease, but at last the women had restored the place to some semblance of cleanliness and order. The empty liquor bottles were collected, with blatant disapproval, by the reverend’s wife for discreet disposal, and Nellie bundled up dirty clothes in the soiled bed linens to pass along to Inge, who would wash them and keep word of it to herself.

Nellie was the one who lingered to twitch one of Bonnie’s doilies into place before closing the door.

Carlisle Applegate wasn’t coming back. She knew it as surely as if he’d said so himself.

And there was nothing wrong about moving on, when hurtful memories were too much a part of a place. What troubled Nellie, though, was the quickness of it, and the fact that he’d left his doctoring bag behind.

~ * ~

When Nellie got back to her place, she saw that Alex had managed to pull out the pies in time, though one of the piecrusts was broken. But the man himself was nowhere to be seen, and he didn’t turn up again for the rest of the day.

"It’s pretty, Daddy." Shirley leaned over to admire the wooden bowl that Jud was carving. He had a look of happiness on his face that had been absent from it for a long time. "You haven’t lost your knack."

"What?" Jud looked up, blinking like a mole coming out at noon time.

"Never mind," Shirley said. "What I want to know, Daddy, is can we go into Williams Trace and buy me my tin pail like you promised?"

Jud tensed. "Not today, Shirley."

"That’s what you said yesterday," Shirley said, "and you’ll probably say it again tomorrow." She didn’t yell. In fact, her voice got quieter and she seemed to wilt like a picked wildflower. "Never mind." She turned away.

Jud’s palms were so wet he couldn’t keep a firm grip on the carving tool, but he swallowed. "Tomorrow," he said. "We’ll go to town tomorrow morning, Shirley. I promise."

She turned back, her face alight and threw her arms around him. "Thank you, Daddy! Hey, Norm! Daddy says we can go buy my tin pail tomorrow!" She dashed off behind the cabin, where Norman was hovering mournfully over the squirrel cooking on a spit over the cook fire. "And you need a good washing," Jud heard his daughter say to his son.

He looked down at his own hands, and smiled ruefully. The same could be said for him. If he was going into town tomorrow, he was going to have to tidy himself up.

If.

You promised her, he reminded himself. You aren’t breaking another promise to your little girl. But the thought of going into town made his hands shake so much that he couldn’t work on the bowl anymore. He sighed, wrapped it up in a piece of sacking, and put it aside.

"Hello to the Deavers!"

Jud looked up to find Abel Galway drawing up in his wagon. "What brings you our way today, young man?" he asked, mustering a smile.

"I’m off to peddle some goods along the river," Abel said. "But Miss Nellie wanted me to drop you by a loaf of bread and a pie first."

"More charity?" Jud could feel himself stiffening.

Abel grinned. "If charity tastes like this, Mr. Deavers, I’m not too proud to eat it myself if you can’t bring yourself to."

Jud couldn’t help but smile. "You’re right, Abel. Can you stop a spell?"

"Just a minute or two," Abel said, looking around with ill-concealed hope. "Miss Shirley around? And--uh--Norman?"

Jud’s smile got a little wider, but he kept his tone bland. "Out back. Shirley’s cooking us up some dinner."

Of course, dinner was also breakfast and supper, but no need to share that bit of information.

"Daddy," Shirley said as she walked around from behind the cabin, "Norman wants to--" Her eyes widened, followed by her smile. "Abel," she said.

Abel’s ears got red, but his smile was no less bright. "Brung you something, Miss Shirley." He dug through the goods at the back of the wagon and emerged, grinning, with a shiny tin pail. "Miss Nellie had her an extra. Thought this might come in handy for you."

It could have been a dozen red roses for the look of gratitude Shirley bestowed on him.

Jud was grateful, too. This meant he wouldn’t have to go into town after all. He turned to pick up his wrapped bowl, and that drew Shirley’s attention away from her treasure.

"Show Abel your bowl, Daddy."

"It’s not finished," Jud said, but she took it from him anyway and unwrapped it for Abel to get a look at.

The young man whistled through his teeth. "That’s a beauty, Mr. Deavers! I could sell something fine like that five times over."

Shirley’s eyes lit up. "He can make other things, too. Do you really think you could sell the bowl?"

Jud tried to protest, but Abel was already assuring Shirley that he could indeed, and puffing up like the most worldly of businessmen. The older man couldn’t bear to bring him down to earth. I remember feeling that way once. And wanting to show Doloros that I was worth something. Doloros… He turned away, his lips tightening.

"He can do simple stuff too," Shirley was telling Abel. "Spoons and candle holders and the like. You think there’d be people wanting that kind of thing?"

"Sure," Abel said expansively. "Though they might like to pay for it in trade, if that suits you."

"As long as it’s useful stuff," Shirley said, smiling up at him. "You’re a regular enterprise, Abel Galway!"

For all Abel knew, this could have been the worst kind of insult, but he couldn’t help smiling down at her. She was a perky little thing, this Miss Shirley Deavers. Didn’t tease a fella like some, and turn her nose up at his job. Of course, Brita was the prettier, but then, looks weren’t everything, were they? After all, come sundown, you mostly went by touch anyhow.

His ears got hot. No, he wasn’t going to think about touching anyone after sundown. Best stick to daylight for now. But maybe Mr. Deavers would bring the family into town for the next social.

"There’s a dance on Saturday," he blurted out, turning to Shirley’s father. "You want to come?"

Jud grimaced, but covered it with a quick smile. "You’re a nice enough fella, Abel, but you’d be better off dancing with a girl. People might talk."

Abel’s face flamed. "I meant I’d be happy to come out and collect you--all of you--and carry you into town."

Shirley pressed her clasped hands to her mouth to keep a squeal from popping out. Her eyes, turning to her father’s, begged him to accept.

But Jud’s head was already shaking a no. "We got no fancy clothes," he said. "Maybe if I was to sell a few things over the next few months--"

The next few months? Abel and Shirley both thought together. To Abel, it was something to look forward to. Give him time to brush up on his dance patterns, maybe, and have himself a new shirt made. To Shirley, it was just Daddy putting something off again--so that he wouldn’t have to do it at all if he waited long enough.

Jud read it in her face and felt deeply ashamed. "You got any yard goods in that peddler’s wagon of yours, Abel? Miss Farmer paid me generous for that marker I made, and I’m thinking my Shirley could stitch something up in time for you to carry her into town on Saturday night."

Shirley’s jaw dropped, and Abel looked like he’d been offered double helpings of iced layer cake. But even as Shirley got ready to launch herself at her father and rain grateful kisses on his face, Abel’s face fell.

"No, sir, no yard goods. I could carry some back out when I finish my trip, though. But I guess that wouldn’t give Miss Shirley time to stitch something up, would it? I won’t be back through until late tomorrow. I mean to make this a short trip--but that’s about as short as I can go. I’m getting a late start this week, due to Miz Applegate’s funeral." He tried to think of a way around it, but there was no solution he could see. Unless… "Mr. Fugg’s got some ready mades in his mercantile, though. You could go on into Williams Trace and buy one there."

Shirley knew full well how that suggestion was going to be welcomed. She shrugged. "Maybe some other time," she said. "Daddy won’t want to go into town just now." She managed a smile. "But thank you, Abel. And thank Miss Farmer for the pail. I’ve been wanting and wanting one."

"I’ll check back tomorrow anyway," Abel said. "Maybe you’ll find the time after all, Mr. Deavers?"

Jud gave him a tight smile that promised nothing.

"So," Abel said awkwardly, "I guess I’ll be heading on out, then. Got to get as far as Buffalo Bend by dusk."

"Thank you, Abel," Shirley said. She clasped her hands together, afraid of what they might do if she didn’t hang onto them.

"Sure, Miss Shirley." Abel thrust out a hand and Shirley, after staring at it for a startled moment, put hers into it. They stood there, smiling foolishly at one another, their hands linked in a proper handshake, neither of them eager to break the contact.

Jud solved what might eventually have turned awkward by clapping Abel on the shoulder and offering his own hand for a shake. "We’re obliged to you, Abel, and to Miss Farmer as well. You tell her we said so, will you?"

Abel nodded and climbed back up onto his wagon seat.

"Nice young man," Jud said when Abel had driven away. "I think he’s taken a shine to you, Shirl."

Shirley gave him a look of despair. "But you took care of that, didn’t you, Daddy?" And she dashed off to see to the meat, leaving Jud to shift from one foot to the other.

She was right and he knew it. How long would a young man stay interested in a girl whose father couldn’t bring himself to help her along? Not if it meant going into town for a social. He was sorry, was Judson Deavers, but that’s the way it was, like it or no. And if Shirley wanted something bad enough, she’d have to just contrive herself a way to get it.

Might as well finish the bowl, he thought, but he returned to the work of it with a lot less of his previous joy.

~ * ~

"So you’re thinking the doctor won’t be back." Milt Caldwell, the sheriff of Williams Trace, stood on Nellie’s porch, his hat in his hands.

"Where’d you hear that?" Nellie said. "And why come asking me?"

Milt chuckled. "Why, Nellie, what you don’t know about the folks hereabouts ain’t worth knowing. So, what about Carl Applegate?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Nellie said.

The sheriff chuckled again. "No," he said, "it ain’t. So you tell me what’s what, like you always do."

"It’s none of my business," Nellie said.

"Since when has that ever stopped you before?" Milt’s tone was wry.

"Make your own opinions," Nellie snapped. "You got a brain, Milt. Use it! Why does it matter anyway, if he comes back or not?"

"We need a doctor," he said. "If Carl don’t mean to come back, we need to get the word out, get ourselves a replacement."

He was right. Nellie knew it, but she hated to put words to her gut feeling. It was like burying Carl Applegate right alongside Bonnie, only without a proper funeral. "Wouldn’t hurt to get the word out either way," she said at last.

"So he ain’t coming back."

"I didn’t say that," Nellie said. "Did I say that? Go away, Milt. Don’t you men of the law have anything better to do than hang around my front porch hoping for a chunk of fry bread?" She went inside and slammed her door, though it was the middle of the day.

Milt Caldwell clapped his hat on his head and moved off. Funny that Carl Applegate would just up and disappear like that, but it was stranger still to find Nellie Farmer out of the mood for a gossip.

~ * ~

The livery was deserted when Alex rode in from the Butterwick place, so he made himself at home, brushing down his mount, and feeding her from the store of oats, then cleaning his tack.

He had just wiped his hands on his bandanna, when the door to the livery creaked shut, cutting off all but a few needles of light from the cracks in the walls. "Hey, Loomis, it’s darker than a bawdy house full of grandmothers in here! Prop that door back open."

He heard footsteps passing over the straw-strewn floor, and they weren’t heavy like a man’s footfall. "Miz Loomis?" he said.

But no, it was that over-ripe Blum girl, Brita, who was smiling up at him in the dim light.

Alex, not one to fear much of anything, took a half step back from her. She was promising trouble with every inch of her body, from that gleam in her eyes and that pouty little smile on her lips to the way one hand teased at the neck of her dress. "Too dark in here," he said matter-of-factly. "A man can’t get his work done."

"Some work is best done in the dark, Mr. Roman."

Even her voice was making promises, Alex thought, half-amused. Promises that she wouldn’t want to pay the price of keeping. "Not with horses," he said aloud. "You never want to work in the dark with horses," he said, shifting a bit to his left, "if you can help it."

"Why not?" Brita asked, adjusting her course to his and moving in for the kill.

There was a squishy sound. Brita came to an abrupt halt.

Alex grinned. "That’s why, Miss Brita," he said. Then he skirted around her and crossed to swing the livery door wide open--so she could get a good look at what she’d just stepped in. And also so Alex could enjoy the chagrin on her face. "Afternoon, Miss Brita." He touched the brim of his hat and moved off toward Nellie’s, chuckling.

~ * ~

"Well, I just don’t want to," Nellie said for the third time.

"That’s not good enough, Nellie." Alex reached across the table and caught her hand, pinning it to the table. "I want you to tell me why."

"Well, I don’t want to tell you," Nellie said, tugging her hand away. "No need to revisit the past."

Alex sighed. "You listened to my story, Nellie. Now I’m ready to listen to yours. What is it about Standard’s Point that you so mislike?"

What’s the point in arguing? Nellie thought. So Penelope stole my man! So what? That was twenty years ago. Water under the bridge. Won’t hurt to tell him.

"My sister lives in Standard’s Point," she said with a sigh. "I haven’t seen her in almost twenty years."

Alex’s jaw dropped. "But that’s less than twenty miles from here, Nellie! How can you not have seen her in all this time?"

"By choice," Nellie said tartly. "And she’s no more eager to see me than I am to see her."

Alex sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "I got to hear the whole story, Nellie. Because here I was thinking you was the most sensible, practical woman I ever clapped eyes on, with the possible exception of my mother--"

Nellie winced.

"--and now I find that you’re as prone to foolishness as the rest of us. So what’s the story?"

"It’s not foolishness," Nellie grumbled, though, come to think on it, maybe it was. She shifted in her chair. Maybe the telling of it would show her how to let it go. Carrying a grudge was heavy work.

~ * ~

~ * ~

"But you were wrong about him." Alex’s voice was gentle.

Nellie shrugged. "My sister is ten months younger, Alex, and ten times prettier. At least she was twenty years ago. Lawrence Foster decided to go with the pick of the litter. You can’t fault a man for that."

"Yes, you can. A promise is a promise. That’s why I never make any."

Nellie rolled her eyes. "And you think I’d have preferred being married to a man who wanted my sister, but married me just to uphold his word? What kind of marriage would that have made, Alex? Not the kind I want." She scooted her chair back and stood. "Wanted."

"You’re right," Alex said promptly. "You were lucky to get shed of him. So why won’t you see your sister?"

"Why would I want to?"

"To see if she’s been happy with her choice? To see if you have cause to thank God it was her instead of you? To mend fences?"

To have her tell me how fat I’ve gotten? To rub it in that Lawrence is lucky he chose her over me? "I don’t feel the need."

"You’d be surprised," Alex said, "how good it feels to let go of a grudge."

Nellie snorted. "Like you let go of the one you had against John Butterwick?"

"That’s different."

Nellie couldn’t help it. She laughed at him.

"I’ll let you off the hook until Monday," Alex said, "then you and me are taking a little jaunt over to Standard’s Point to track down this lawyer fellow you’ve heard tell of." He clapped his hat on his head and grinned at her, but she refused to let him charm her. "Monday morning. First thing."

"Monday is my baking day," Nellie said.

"Not next week it isn’t," Alex said. "Next week, your baking day is Tuesday. Now, the word is there’s a sociable coming up on Saturday night. You ready to set this town on its ear?"

"That’s not my style."

This time it was Alex who laughed. Reaching for her, he gave her a quick hug. "Liar," he said cheerfully. "I’m thinking to buy myself a new string tie." With a wink, he added, "I hate to be seen wearing the same one two weeks running."

"I’m not going dancing with you," Nellie said--but not until after he’d gone out and the door had shut behind him. "I’m not," she said again.

She looked around the room, suddenly itching for a project. No use in baking today when there were still two loaves of bread waiting to be cut. She usually did a second big baking on Saturday mornings so as to be well-stocked over the Sabbath--but this was only Thursday.

Abel had the wagon, or she’d go out and visit with the Deavers. They all had a hungry look about them, and though she suspected it was more a hunger of the soul--well, she couldn’t do anything about that, could she? No, but she could see to it that their bellies were filled, couldn’t she?

And maybe she could talk to Mr. Deavers about adding a covered walkway out to her kitchen in the back.

Abel would be back tomorrow, and Nellie would have some things ready for him to carry out to Bess and Ben’s old cabin. Better yet, she’d ride out with him. And as for Alex Roman--well, she wasn’t going to think about Alex Roman right now. And she sure wasn’t going to think about going to Standard’s Point with him on Monday. Because I’m not going, she thought. Not even for his pretty face.

That decided, Nellie got to work.

"Brita’s seen a frock she wants over at Charley Fugg’s mercantile." Inge sighed as she reached for the cup of tea Nellie handed over to her.

"That girl has more dresses than she knows what to do with, honey. You aren’t getting it for her, are you?"

Inge blew on her tea, not quite meeting Nellie’s eyes. "She’ll coax me until I do."

Nellie shook her head. "Brita’s got you wrapped so tight around her little finger that I’m surprised you can breathe, Inge. You spoil her. She never does a lick of work. You’re always buying her pretty things and never anything for yourself."

Inge shrugged, sipped at her tea. "Why would I need pretty things? Besides, Brita has a chance to marry well, pretty as she is."

"What if the man she chooses don’t have much by him, honey? She’ll be unhappy, never having had to make do before."

Inge’s jaw squared. "There’s been too much making do in the Blum family. It’s too late for Mutti and me--but there’s still hope for Brita. One of these days--"

She’ll turn up ruined, Nellie started to say--but managed to bite her tongue in time. I don’t have such a large number of friends that I can afford to cull any one of them from the herd. And criticizing Brita to her sister was a sure way to lose Inge.

"That Abel Galway is a good young man, isn’t he?" Inge probably thought she was being off-hand, but Nellie could see right through her. "A hard worker. He finds Brita pretty. I can tell."

"What fellow wouldn’t?" Nellie said it aloud, but another face was coming to mind. That sharp-tongued Shirley Deavers had more substance in her little toe than spoiled Brita Blum did in her whole body.

Nellie was fond of Abel--and Brita would make his life a living hell if she decided she wanted him. It didn’t matter how old a fellow was--he couldn’t be trusted to make the right decisions on his own. He needed a little advice, a little encouragement. A little incentive.

As soon as Inge was gone, Nellie turned her mind to dresses. Her own purple sateen would have to do for Saturday. She doubted that Charley Fugg would have enough of anything fancy with which to cover her girth even if she had the time or skill to stitch it together--but a ready-made dress was a different story. Not for her, of course, because how many ready-made dresses were sized to fit a pickle barrel? A pickle barrel doesn’t get out much.

But Brita Blum and Shirley Deavers were of a size, if Nellie’s eye was to be trusted--and if there was a pretty dress hanging in Charley Fugg’s mercantile that Brita wanted, why, maybe it was the perfect dress to carry to Shirley Deavers when Nellie rode out to invite the Deavers family into town for the Saturday night sociable. She’d loan them the wagon after the social so they could ride in for church the next morning, after which they could stop in at Nellie’s for Sunday dinner.

The Blum girls would be there, too. They had a standing invitation to Nellie’s Sunday table. But Nellie could get Alex to divert Brita’s attention from Abel, if the girl was even tempted to let it stray there in the first place. Nellie made a face. Not that Alex would be reluctant, would he? For what fellow could resist flirting with a piece of work like Brita Blum?

Nellie’s hands were already busy sorting through supplies, but her mind was elsewhere. Now, who could she find for Inge? Inge was a decent girl--and she deserved better than the leavings around Williams Trace. Too bad Carlisle Applegate had done a runner. Once he pulled himself together, he’d be a dandy catch for the right girl. But no use crying over spilled milk, was there? There was bound to be someone for Inge Blum--if only Nellie could think who.

Nellie’s thoughts went to Judson Deavers--and her heart gave a funny little jump. He’s a little on the old side, she told herself quickly, for a young woman like Inge. No, best leave Judson Deavers out of her plans for Inge. That decided, her heart settled back to normal. And Norman is too young, she reminded herself for good measure. Who, then? Who could she pair Inge up with?

Maybe it’ll come to me at the sociable, she thought, if I put my mind to it. But first, I’m going over to the mercantile and get a look at Brita’s dress.

She pulled off her apron and gave a swift pat to her hair.

~ * ~

"You couldn’t squeeze into that if your life depended on it," Charley Fugg pointed out--and a bit too gleefully, if the truth be told.

Nellie ignored him, fingering the ruffle at the edge of the three-quarter sleeve. It was a pretty dress, the same deep pink of the wildflowers that popped up like prairie dogs in the spring, with just enough frill to it to make it a party dress without going so far as to make it too fancy for church. "Wrap it up, Charley Fugg, and button that slack lip of yours."

"At least I can button my lip," Charley said, "which is more than you’ll ever be able to do with this dress, Nellie Farmer."

"Charley, Charley," Nellie said, shaking her head, "you sure aren’t much of a salesman, are you? No wonder your mercantile is looking so shabby these days. Can’t afford to fix it up, can you?" She smiled at him, sweet as honey straight from the hive. "Maybe at the sociable we could pass the hat, take up a collection to help you out."

"The mercantile’s doing fine," he snapped.

"Don’t stand on your pride, Charley. When a man’s in trouble, there’s no shame in calling upon his neighbors for help."

Charley’s face got red enough that Nellie wondered if steam would actually shoot out of those jug-handle ears of his--but he wrapped up the dress anyway, though he swore under his breath with every fold of the paper, and jerked the string so tight it broke when he was tying it.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Nellie said cheerfully when he thrust the badly wrapped parcel at her. "As always."

"Can’t say the same," Charley muttered.

She tucked the parcel under her arm and headed out of the mercantile. There was Brita Blum now, heading straight towards Charley Fugg’s store, her drawstring bag clutched in one hand, and an acquisitive gleam in her eye.

Just in time, Nellie thought. I bought the dress just in time.

Sure enough, she could hear Brita’s shriek clear outside as the girl discovered what she’d coveted had already been sold.

Nellie couldn’t keep herself from grinning.

A pretty face was all well and good--but in a contest between a pretty face and quick thinking, Nellie figured she’d lay her money on quick thinking every time.

~ * ~

Abel was not given to dilly-dallying on his peddling trips, though he usually engaged in a good measure of chit-chat at each stop.

It was a beautiful Friday morning, he’d slept like a baby by a campfire that had drawn just right the night before, his wagon was light of the things he’d driven out with, and full of useful and interesting things he’d taken as barter--and best of all, he was not far from home.

Not that he was actually thinking of home at the moment. No, his thoughts were all on a pair of fine eyes, a fat brown braid or two, and a smile that made a little flutter in his belly, like he was hungry for some kind of treat he didn’t quite have the name for.

And around the bend was the Miller place. He’d be able to see it with one more turn, and that meant he was just a hop, skip and a jump from the Deavers’ cabin. He wondered if Miss Shirley Deavers had worked out a dress somehow--though Abel couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. A dress was just a dress, wasn’t it? As long as it didn’t smell, or have noticeable holes, who cared what it looked like?

Abel shook his head. Girls were a mystery, that was for certain. From the time pretty Johanna Wells had turned up in Williams Trace five years back, Abel had been struggling to figure out what made a girl tick. He hadn’t got it figured out by the time the Wells family up and left--no, nor when Miz Blum had come to town three years back with her two daughters in tow. And now here came Shirley Deavers giving him another chance to study out the puzzle and maybe, just maybe, get it figured out once and for all.

There. He was around the bend--and there was the Miller place. It was well-kept--and a sight quieter now that the Miller girls were both married off. Abel wondered if Junior was about. He hadn’t seen the youngest of the Miller offspring around in town much lately. Likely his father had put him to work in a try to sober Junior up some.

Abel shook his head. Junior was a couple of years younger--but the boy had a gleam in his eye that led Abel to believe he’d figured out a sight more about life--and girls--than Abel had yet managed.

Junior Miller was as single-minded as a hound dog when it came to petticoats and what might be hiding under them.

~ * ~

"I never thought you for an early bird, Brita." Junior was loading up a stack of barrels this fine Friday morning out behind Loomis’s livery--but he stopped as Brita Blum slid around the corner of the building and into his range of vision.

"The early bird catches the worm, Junior Miller." Brita was still angry about the dress that ought to have been hers. And when Brita was angry, it added another whole level of recklessness to her already careless behavior. "Where you hauling those barrels, Junior?"

"Home. We got a long day’s work ahead of us." Junior grimaced. "Filling up these barrels so’s they can be carried over to the train depot come Monday morning."

"Room in your wagon for a passenger this morning?"

Junior’s eyes gleamed. "Depends on the passenger."

Brita made a little swish of her hips and slid a sideways smile at the Miller boy, liking how his eyes bugged out. She was sure she could delay those barrels, and without half trying. Oh, he’d load them up well enough--and maybe faster than he might have done otherwise, since he’d figure it would show off his muscles. No, it wouldn’t be the loading that delayed those barrels.

But somewhere on the road between Loomis’s livery and the Miller place, she knew she could distract this boy from his work.

Maybe by a certain smile, or a casual hand to the spot where she curved out and in, or maybe with the breathless little laugh she’d cultivated since she was twelve.

Or maybe she’d just coax him into stopping by the spring for a little walk. By then he’d think it was all his own idea, Brita thought. By then he’d be more than ready to try and steal a kiss. Maybe she’d even let him!

Junior gave Brita a hand up onto the wagon seat, panting like a pup.

~ * ~

Brita got bored with the game pretty quickly. Junior is my same age, after all, she thought, and while the Miller place is nice enough, the Butterwick place is bigger. Quinton Bentley wasn’t as good looking as Junior Miller, she added to herself, but he had the advantage of indulgent parents. Junior Miller’s father was as strict as a preacher.

So she teased Junior without mercy along the way, until he finally stopped the wagon and grabbed at her.

She let him get in one good squeeze, then smacked his hands away. "What do you think you’re doing, Junior Miller?" she gasped, widening her eyes in faked outrage.

"What you wanted me to do," Junior said, his voice desperate as he reached again.

This time, Brita’s slap left a mark on his cheek. "How dare you?" she demanded.

"You asked for it," Junior said, his face white under the red print. "You practically begged me--"

"You wish," Brita sneered. "Take me back into town."

"I’m late enough already." He scowled at her. "You can just walk back to Williams Trace, Brita. Do you some good." He shoved her out of the wagon, his eyes snapping with fury and frustration.

Brita stamped one foot, but Junior appeared to enjoy having the upper hand for a change. He drove off toward home, with Brita glaring at him from the road.

Abel Galway had the misfortune of passing by a few minutes later. Brita Blum waved him to a stop and talked him into giving her a ride back into town.

No way was Abel going to stop in on the Deavers with Brita Blum in tow. No, he’d just have to coax Miss Nellie into letting him take the wagon back out later this afternoon, once he’d unloaded this unexpected baggage.

She was in a sulk, was Brita, and the scowl on her face was enough to sour the most ardent of admirers--which Abel, to his happy surprise, no longer was.

All in all, a good trip. But he was glad to be home.

~ * ~

Shirley Deavers, out to collect pecans, spied Abel’s wagon from the grove, saw his passenger and--like many a girl before her--got herself a fine workout by jumping to conclusions.

So Abel Galway had himself a sweetheart, did he? Well, that was just fine, Shirley thought. And she’d let him know she thought so the very next time she saw him.

~ * ~

"How’d you come to carry Brita Blum into town with you?" Nellie asked when Abel finally showed up in front of her place. "The townsfolk will have the two of you married off by sundown if you aren’t careful, honey."

Nellie was satisfied with the way Abel blanched at the thought. "Never mind," she said. "We’ll just have to give them something else to mull over, won’t we? Go say hello to your mama, and then get on back here and help me load up a few things. I need to make a run out to the Deavers’ cabin."

Nellie was satisfied with the way Abel’s face brightened at the prospect. Looked like she wasn’t going to have to do too much meddling. She could just sit back and let nature take its course…

"I don’t need to say hello to my mama," Abel said.

But Nellie wouldn’t budge until he’d gone and done so. By the time he got back it was noon and Nellie was packing a picnic into a basket.

Yes, indeed, Abel Galway was glad to be home!

~ * ~

"Afternoon, Miss Farmer, Abel." Judson Deavers had had plenty of time to think about his life, as well as his duty to his children, and he was ready, if not willing, to make a sacrifice on their behalf.

"Afternoon, Mr. Deavers." Nellie started to scramble down from the wagon seat, so Jud moved to give her a hand. "Have you eaten?" she asked, then, without waiting for an answer, she added, "I brought us a picnic--being as it’s such a pretty day." She caught sight of the look on Norman’s face, and grinned. "You’re a boy after my own heart, honey," she said, "for doesn’t it do me a world of good to see someone looking forward to my cooking? Abel, haul down the basket, would you?’ She paused. "Where’s that sharp-tongued daughter of yours, Mr. Deavers? I mean to have a talk with her."

Judson looked around, then ran a hand over his thinning hair. "She’s not back, Norm?" At his son’s shrug, he turned to Nellie. "She thought to gather some pecans. I expected her back before now."

"I’ll go look for her," Abel offered, but Jud shook his head.

"She’ll make her way back on her own time. Sometimes a girl needs time to herself." He half-smiled at the look on Abel’s face. "And we can’t take offense at it, can we, if that’s how God crafted them?" He turned back to Nellie. "So, a picnic, you said?"

Nellie waited for him to protest, call it charity, get all stiff-rumped about it, but Judson Deavers was smiling, calling for Norman to drag the benches down from the porch while he put up a set of boards to serve as a table. "Unless you meant for us to sit on the ground, Miss Farmer?"

Nellie snorted. "Are you joking? If I sat on the ground, I’d likely have to stay there ‘til the day I died." She grinned. "Unless you had a mind to rope me like a tree stump and yank me back to my feet."

Jud’s eyes twinkled, but he kept his lips from curving into an answering smile. "I’m thinking you’d rather give that a miss."

"You’re a smart man, Mr. Deavers."

Feeling pleased with herself, Nellie got Abel to fetch a cloth from the wagon to spread over the boards for a table cover so she could set out the food.

Feeling equally pleased with himself, Judson Deavers headed for the house to get one of the chairs he’d pegged together. The rest of them could make do with the benches from the porch, but Miss Farmer deserved a real chair.

Norman was practically moaning by the time the basket was unpacked, but Abel, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, was still more interested in the missing Deavers. Where was Shirley?

"Let’s eat," Nellie suggested. "Shirley can catch up to us when she gets back."

~ * ~

"You put together a fine picnic, Miss Farmer." Judson Deavers was feeling as satisfied as he’d ever been in his life. A pretty day, more than enough to eat--all of it delicious--and the pleasant face of a woman smiling at him across the boards.

"Thank you, Mr. Deavers." Nellie dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, then set it next to her plate. "Pie is my personal favorite, but if you have a taste for cake, you ought to come to the sociable in town tomorrow night."

Judson’s good mood dipped a notch.

"Give you a chance to meet up with the folks in town," Nellie went on, "talk up your carving skill, draw yourself some work." She smiled over at Norman. "Dance with a pretty girl or two."

Norman made a face.

"Well, there’s always the cake," she reminded the young man. "Abel can come out and collect the three of you before supper. You can eat at my place and we can all go over to the sociable together. Then I’ll loan you the wagon to get yourselves home in, and you can drive it back into town Sunday morning, go to church, and afterwards stop in for Sunday dinner." She sat back in her chair and waited for the refusals to fly.

"That’s very kind of you, Miss Farmer," Jud said slowly.

Nellie opened her mouth for rebuttal, then realized what he’d just said. No excuses? No thanks-but-no-thanks? No prideful rejection?

"Though Shirl will want a new dress," Jud went on, still mulling it over, "and I don’t expect there’s time to have one made up."

"I have a dress she can borrow," Nellie said.

"If it’s yours," Abel said, "then Norman and Mr. Deavers can wear it along with her." There was nothing malicious in the way Abel said it; he still seemed mostly distracted.

Nellie’s face got red, but she pretended not to hear. The pretense didn’t last long, though, because Judson Deavers narrowed his eyes at the minister’s son, glaring at him until Abel squirmed and mumbled an apology.

"Caught a lizard this morning," Norman said into the awkward silence that followed. "Want to take a look, Abel?"

"Yeah," Abel said, relieved. "Sure. But first I’ll help with the clearing up."

But Nellie shooed him away. When Abel and Norman were out of earshot, she turned to Jud. "He didn’t mean any harm. He just called it as he saw it. Can’t fault him for that, Mr. Deavers."

"You can overlook rudeness at your own table if you want, Miss Farmer, but I won’t sit for it at mine. We have cause to be grateful to you--"

"Bundle up your gratitude and chuck it in the river," Nellie said. "I don’t have any use for it." But she was beaming as she spoke. How long had it been since a man had stuck up for her that way? Judson Deavers was a nice man. A very nice man.

Judson Deavers smiled at her and Nellie got to feeling a little flustered, so she turned to work.

After the wagon had been unloaded--"Just a few things on loan to make it more comfortable out here for the three of you. They aren’t doing anybody any good just sitting around in my back room at home, now are they?"--and the leftovers argued over--"Why would I want to carry them home, Mr. Deavers? I got pies and bread coming out my ears!"--Nellie brought out the parcel with the dress in it.

"This is for Shirley, if she ever decides to turn up. She can borrow it for the sociable. If she likes it, she can trade me for it with some of those pecans she’s collecting. I’m always needing more pecans--and if they’re shelled, that’ll save me a lot of time."

It didn’t seem like a fair trade to Jud--especially since he suspected some of those pecans would go right into baked goods that would end up back in Deavers hands--but he thought of Shirley’s future, so he swallowed his pride and nodded.

"You’ve done a dandy job shoring up the cabin," Nellie said. "You’ve got clever hands, Mr. Deavers. Think I could hire you to do a little work on my place in town one of these days soon?"

"I don’t know about hiring," Jud said, "but I’d build you a whole town if it’d earn me another piece of your pie."

"Done," Nellie said with a grin. "Though, if you’re building me a whole town, you’ll have to help me figure out a name for it."

"What kind of work needs doing?"

"Well, I’m thinking a covered walkway from my back door to my kitchen. Keep my pies and cookies from getting damp on rainy days."

"If it’s in aid of your pies, Miss Farmer, then I’ll get on it right away." His eyes were twinkling.

"I’d be obliged," Nellie said, letting her eyes twinkle back at him.

~ * ~

Nellie’s thoughts were running a mile a minute on the way back to town, so she didn’t notice that Abel was downcast.

Why hadn’t Shirley come around, he wondered, when he’d told her he’d stop back by on Friday? Didn’t she want to see him?

Meanwhile, Nellie was reconsidering. Maybe Judson Deavers would do for Inge Blum after all. He was a very nice man, wasn’t he? She found she was smiling at the memory of their banter. Pull yourself together, Nellie Jane Farmer! It’s Inge you need to be thinking about! He was old enough to be Inge’s father, but so what? Maybe Inge needed herself a father figure, having done without one most of her life. As clever as he was with his hands, he’d have himself a booming business in no time, which meant he’d be a good provider. He was on the short side for Inge, but Inge was tall for a woman, and she wouldn’t overlook a good man like Judson Deavers just because he was a tad short. And a bit on the old side. With two almost-grown kids. And not a penny to bless himself with…

He’s not too short or old for some, Nellie caught herself thinking, then brought her thoughts firmly back under control. This was about her young friend, after all. Anything else was just not part of today’s menu. No, nor tomorrow’s either, she thought, her spirits dipping just a little.

Tomorrow was bound to be interesting. It was shaping up that way already, wasn’t it? And Nellie hadn’t even done half the meddling she intended…

She wondered which Judson Deavers preferred, ham or chicken.

"No." Alex Roman folded his arms and came as close to glaring as Nellie had ever seen him.

She gave one last pat to the silly jumble of curls on her head and looked at him in the glass. "What do you mean, no?"

"No," said Alex. "No, I won’t flirt with that Blum girl, Nellie. It ain’t smart. She’s trouble just begging to happen. One false move on my part and I could end up stuck with her for good." Only it wouldn’t be good, as Alex knew only too well. Not a bit of it.

"I’m not asking you to marry her, honey," Nellie retorted. "No, nor compromise her neither. I just need you to distract her should she set her mind to--to--working on any of the other fellows present."

Alex narrowed his eyes. "What other fellows are going to be present, Nellie?"

"Oh, just Abel and two others. But I mean for the evening to go the way I’ve planned it, Alex, and part of that plan includes heading Brita off should she want to show her claws tonight."

"Why’d you invite her in the first place?"

"I can’t have Inge without Brita," Nellie said.

Alex leaned against the doorjamb, a smile coming to his mouth that Nellie instantly distrusted. "What?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"I’ll take care of Brita Blum," Alex said.

Nellie decided not to pry into his methods. "I knew I could count on you, honey. And what kind of hardship will it be, anyhow, for you to distract a pretty girl? Why, you could do it with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back--"

"On one condition," Alex interrupted.

Nellie knew right off that she wasn’t going to like this one bit.

"Standard’s Point on Monday," Alex said. "No more arguments."

"But--"

"Or I don’t fall in with your plans, Nellie Farmer, no matter how much you’re counting on me."

"You’re a hard man, Alex Roman."

"That’s my deal, Nellie. Take it or leave it."

Nellie snatched up a handkerchief from the top of her dresser. "Oh, all right. But don’t expect me to enjoy it."

Alex grinned. "It ain’t a pleasure trip anyhow." He straightened, gave a tug to his vest, one hand moving to the string tie at his collar. "And here I was hoping to spend the evening flirting with you."

"Uh-huh." Nellie rolled her eyes.

"You look good enough to eat," he said as he moved off.

"Sure," Nellie muttered, her cheeks going pink. "At least it would save you the trouble of going back for a second helping."

Standard’s Point on Monday, was it? Well, maybe she’d get lucky and break her leg or catch the ague before then. She could always hope, couldn’t she?

~ * ~

Abel, with the wagon, had been dispatched to collect the Deavers.

He’d talked his mama into ironing his shirt for him, and slicked his hair back from his round, freshly shaved face. He’d thought to grow whiskers to give himself a more mature look, but his little sisters and brothers had laughed at him and his mama had tried to wipe them off with spit on the corner of her apron.

Lord, but he’d be glad to be out of his parents’ house. The wagon would be his come summer’s end, then he could start building a little place of his own.

From there, it wasn’t much of a leap to start thinking of a young woman to share it with. By the time he reached the Deavers’, he’d mentally surrounded himself with four brown-haired babies and pie every night of the week. It didn’t get much better than that.

"Hello to the Deavers!" he called as he drew up in front of the cabin.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was giving everything in sight the glow of gold.

Out came Judson Deavers, his whiskers trimmed and his shabby clothes neatened up and brushed clean. He was followed by Norman, sporting a fresh haircut, his shirt tucked in and his shoes touched up with blacking and free of dirt.

They had no cause to be ashamed, either one of them, but it was the third member of the family Abel was eager to get a look at. It felt like a month since he’d set eyes on Miss Shirley--though it had only been a few short days. So where was she?

He looked past Jud and Norman, the anticipation on his face almost painful to look at.

Jud, in fact, had to look away from it. Young Galway was going to get shot down, sure enough, and darned if Judson Deavers could figure out why. Hadn’t Shirley taken a shine to the young man? Hadn’t she lit up like a firecracker on the Fourth of July whenever he came by? Hadn’t she wanted to go to the sociable tonight--and hadn’t Jud made the ultimate sacrifice in agreeing to Miss Farmer’s plans so she could?

And now she was sulking and pouting like the worst kind of imitation of her mother, insisting she wouldn’t go and he couldn’t make her, until Jud threatened to put her over his knee and swat her ‘til she howled for mercy.

She’d scowled at him--but she’d set about getting herself fixed up. As soon as Jud and Norman were done, she’d chased them out of the cabin and slammed the door behind them.

And now here was Abel Galway, looking like a puppy just begging to be stroked. And what he’ll get instead, Jud thought with a sigh, is the sharp side of Shirley’s tongue.

Though after this afternoon, Jud was thinking both sides of it were sharp.

What had gotten into the girl?

Norman went over to the mule team, stroking their noses and crooning to them like they were his own little babies, while Jud shifted his hat from one hand to another.

"She’ll be out directly," he said at last, then cleared his throat. "Something’s got her in a pucker, Abel. Best lay low."

But Abel appeared to be unable to take his eyes away from the door.

So when Shirley finally slammed it open and gave him her fiercest scowl, it cut him to the quick.

Lord, but she looked pretty, though, with all that brown hair tumbling around her shoulders in curls, and the pink of the dress the same as the angry pink of her cheeks.

But Miss Shirley Deavers was not in a festive mood. Abel could see that right off. Still, he swallowed his disappointment as best he could, those visions of brown-haired babies blowing off like so much smoke in the wind, and offered her a hand up into the wagon. She ignored it, choosing to sit in back with Norman and leaving the wagon seat to her daddy.

~ * ~

Nellie had just finished setting out the food when the Blum sisters showed up. With one stern look at Alex, she turned to Inge. "You look a treat, honey."

Inge shrugged and smoothed at the skirt of her one good dress. "Brita looks like an angel, doesn’t she?" she said.

The younger sister had a new dress after all, blue as a spring wildflower, with enough frills and furbelows to rival a wedding cake. Her flaxen hair was swept up, adding a couple of years to her age, and her eyes snapped with an emotion for which Nellie well knew the reason. So the minx still held a grudge about the dress, did she? And this despite the blue frock Inge had somehow contrived on short notice.

"Well, make yourselves comfortable," Nellie said. "We’ll dish up the supper as soon as Abel gets here with the rest of the company. Alex, why don’t you and Brita wait out on the porch where it’s cooler?"

"No," Alex said. "I’m going to help you finish setting the table. Miss Inge and Miss Brita, take a seat outside, why don’t you? I’ll bring you out a drink here in a minute."

"You’ve got a job to do," Nellie hissed, but Alex just smiled.

"I’m not on duty yet," he whispered back. "Not until someone else in britches turns up at your door."

The sun was just sliding out of sight when Abel pulled up in front of Nellie’s. He jumped down to help Shirley out from the back, but she was too quick for him. She hopped out, ignoring the hand he offered, shook out her pink skirts, and turned to the porch, where Alex had just handed a glass to Brita Blum.

Shirley’s eyes narrowed. Wonderful! Abel Galway’s girlfriend was here for supper, was she? Well, that meant Shirley wasn’t going to be able to choke down a single bite.

Brita’s eyes also narrowed. So this was the thief who’d bought the dress meant for Brita, was it? Well, it didn’t look half so fine on her as it would have on Brita, did it? So there.

Inge could sense a storm brewing. She set her glass down and moved to welcome the Deavers.

Abel had just made introductions, and Jud had just taken Inge’s offered hand when Nellie came to the door to invite them all in to the table. She saw the faint pink in Inge’s cheeks, and the smile that she fancied looked more than polite on Judson Deavers’ lips--and Nellie felt a little rumble of something in the vicinity of her heart.

I was right, she thought. He’s too short. And too old. Best think of someone else for Inge, hadn’t I? And right away.

She didn’t stop to consider the urgency, but there was no denying she felt it.

Because Judson Deavers was offering Inge Blum his arm to escort her in to dinner. And Alex, as ordered, was taking care of Brita. Shirley grabbed Norman by the arm before Abel could so much as look at her, which left Abel with Nellie.

"Best put up the team, honey," Nellie said to him. "Don’t want to leave them standing for half the night."

"But--"

"We’ll hold supper for you," Nellie said, misreading the longing in his eyes. "Go ahead on, Abel." She gave him a little push, then headed inside. Well, this wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind, was it? But never mind. Things would sort themselves out at the sociable.

~ * ~

Shirley and Brita mixed about as well as oil and water. In fact, if there was such a thing as hate at first sight, this was it. Nellie half-expected them to commence hair-pulling, though they were all glittery smiles and soft voices. And it was a good thing there was pecan pie for dessert, since the cream in the pitcher was likely soured by the atmosphere at the table.

Inge did her best to smooth things over, and Jud was quick to assist, though he didn’t seem quite clear on what was up. Alex, the rascal, was enjoying the whole show. In fact, he seemed to be egging it along every chance he got.

Abel looked as confused as a chicken in a duck pond.

Norman was the only one ignoring the undercurrents, focused as he was on the whipped potatoes, pink and juicy slabs of ham, dressed greens and yeast rolls.

Nellie was so flustered she couldn’t even eat.

What had set Shirley off like this? And why was she making such a point of snubbing poor Abel, when his big sad eyes were as full of longing as a hound dog under a supper table every time he looked her way?

And Brita was barely acknowledging Alex’s presence, when Nellie had expected her to fawn all over him. The younger Blum was maybe saving her flirtations for the sociable, where there would be broader scope for her talents. At least she’s leaving Abel alone, Nellie thought, and Judson, too, for that matter.

Inge, to Nellie’s relief, didn’t seem to be warming up to Judson Deavers. Oh, she was plenty polite, but there was no spark in her eyes when she looked at the man.

It’ll all work itself out once we get to the sociable, Nellie decided. Then, Lord, I hope it’ll all work itself out!

~ * ~

"That was the dress Brita wanted," Inge murmured when they’d all made their uneasy walk over to the sociable.

"No, really?" Nellie had to work to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Well, first come, first served, as my Grandma Dayton liked to say." She cleared her throat. "So, what do you think of Mr. Deavers?" Might as well get to the point. If there was any kind of spark there, Nellie owed it to her young friend to fan it into flame--though she had to do battle with some unexpected inner reluctance.

"A nice man," Inge said, "but he’s much too old for Brita."

"Forget Brita for a minute, honey," Nellie said. "What about for you?"

"For me?" Inge seemed aghast. "What would I want a beau for? Besides, he’s kind of short, isn’t he?"

"He’s plenty tall," Nellie retorted. "His legs go all the way to the ground, don’t they?" Her feathers were ruffled on Judson’s behalf, but she was relieved to think that maybe Inge was right. Maybe Inge would be better off to stick with Gene Sherman, who, though no spring chicken himself, had the advantage of several inches over Judson Deavers. There was Gene’s secret drinking to worry about, but no man was perfect. And maybe Nellie could drop him a few tactful hints about weaning himself off the bottle.

Gene Sherman obliged her by coming over to ask Inge to dance.

There, Nellie thought, that’s one problem taken care of. Now what have the youngsters gone and gotten themselves up to?

Norman was already investigating the refreshments. The boy was a bottomless pit, for all his skin and bones, and no more interested in dancing than a cat was interested in a cuddle.

Shirley, though, was still ignoring poor Abel. In fact, Junior Miller was leading her out to the dance floor, a gleam in his eye. Nellie mistrusted Junior Miller. He was sly. She’d have to keep her eye on him. He wasn’t at all suitable for a decent girl like Shirley Deavers.

And where was Brita? Nellie looked the room over. Good, she was flirting with Quinton Bentley, while Abel was being cornered by Quinton’s sister. There was no harm in letting Ursula coax Abel out on the floor. He was safe enough for the moment, for heaven knew there was nothing the least bit inviting about Persephone Bentley’s daughter.

"Thank you for the dinner. It was fine, Miss Farmer."

Nellie turned to find Judson Deavers at her elbow.

"I have to beg your pardon for Shirley," he went on. "I don’t understand what’s gotten into her. She wanted to come to town." Jud was looking as puzzled as a pilgrim at an ear of corn.

"Girls have their moods," Nellie said. "Likely she’ll get over it and have a good time despite herself. And so must you, Mr. Deavers. Let me introduce you around. Do you like to dance?"

"As a matter of fact--" he began, but was cut off by Alex Roman.

"Dance with me, Nellie."

"Don’t you have yourself a job to do?" Nellie asked with a pointed look, but Alex shrugged.

"My job is doing itself," he said. "And I’d rather dance with you anyhow. Let’s set the town on its ear, Nellie."

Before she could protest, Alex had dragged her out to the middle of the dance floor and was twirling her like a top. His yellow hair gleamed gold in the lamplight and his eyes were as laughing as his mouth.

Judson Deavers watched for just a moment, a polite smile on his face, before he turned and slipped off to an abandoned corner. This was plain foolishness. He didn’t belong at a sociable any more than a dog belonged at a dinner table. Hadn’t Doloros told him a hundred times how ill-suited he was for town life? And she’d been right, hadn’t she?

Besides which, the only woman he had a mind to dance with was out there with a man much younger and more full of charm than Judson Deavers could ever hope to be.

No, Jud ought to have stayed out at the cabin. Turned in early for the night, like he had the five hundred nights before this one. Some things in his life might get better. The rest, he hoped, would at least refrain from getting worse.

~ * ~

Junior Miller was as silly as they came, Shirley thought. When he would have danced with her a second time, she shook her head and looked around for a good excuse to escape. I will not watch Abel Galway dancing with that Blum girl, she told herself, but she couldn’t help looking for him anyway. He was dancing, all right, but with a sharp-faced girl who looked as miserable as he did.

Brita was dancing across the room with another fellow, and by the looks of it, there was a string of others who were just chomping at the bit to cut in.

Boys liked girls like that, Shirley thought. They couldn’t see beyond the dimples and curls.

But why wasn’t Abel standing up for himself, keeping all those other fellows from buzzing around his girl?

~ * ~

What did I do wrong? Abel wondered for the hundredth time as he found himself dancing next with his little sister, Naomi. He couldn’t keep from searching out Shirley Deavers with his eyes every chance he got. He’d had high hopes for tonight--but they were all shot down by now, and getting ground into the floorboards by about fifty sets of dancing shoes.

~ * ~

Who needs a pink dress anyway? Brita thought with a toss of her head. She had Quinton Bentley just about sewed up. Any minute now he was going to suggest they walk around outside to cool themselves off--only it wasn’t cooling off he had in mind. Boys never really wanted to cool off, did they? Brita had figured that out a long time ago--long before her mother had packed them up right quick and moved them away from Peach Creek.

So she’d been caught in a hayloft with seventeen-year-old Jimmy Glover, and she only twelve. So what?

Brita Blum knew what boys were good for, didn’t she?

"Mighty hot in here," Quinton said right on schedule. "Would you like to step out for some fresh air?"

"That would be just about perfect," Brita said, dimpling up at him.

Johnwick’s Pride was going to be in her pocket any day now. After all, she was already playing the son and heir like a finely tuned fiddle, wasn’t she?

~ * ~

"Enough," Nellie gasped. "I’m too old for this kind of nonsense. Pick on someone your own age, Alex."

"Don’t want to," Alex said. "Every female in this room is holding out for promises, and I don’t plan on making one to any one of them."

"I’m safe, am I?" Nellie pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at her face. It wasn’t exactly flattering, when the truth was told, but she was no more immune to his charms than any other female drawing breath.

Alex grinned at her. "Not while I’m around."

If her face hadn’t already been flushed, she’d have turned red at that for sure. Still, he was just playing, and she’d be a fool not to recognize it.

"Come on, Nellie, dance with me," Alex said. He was already pulling her back out, and Nellie wasn’t resisting, not really, when she caught sight of Judson Deavers, half in the shadows in one lonely corner of the room.

He was watching her, that polite half-smile on his lips as stiff as if it had been plastered there.

Is he cut up about Inge? Nellie wondered. Then, He looks like he’s hurting, for all his smile. I need to cheer him up. "Find another partner, Alex," she said abruptly. "I need to--"

"You need to dance with me, Nellie Farmer," Alex said, and twirled her into the crowd.

~ * ~

"We’re obliged to you," Judson Deavers said to Nellie.

It was coming on to midnight. The sociable had broken up all at once, and Abel had brought the wagon around for the Deavers family to drive out to the cabin.

Abel hadn’t even tried to speak to Shirley, as many times as he’d been rebuffed during the early part of the evening. He just kept his eyes lowered, as droopy as a whipped puppy dog.

And the irony of it was that Shirley would have smiled at him by now, after watching him dance not even once with that saucy Brita Blum. Maybe she’d been mistaken, she thought around eleven o’clock. Maybe Abel didn’t have himself a girlfriend after all. Maybe, just maybe, Shirley had made a false assumption.

But by then, it was too late. Abel’d had all the air let out of him, and if he wouldn’t even look at her, how was she going to give him the encouragement of a smile?

Life was hard.

"This wasn’t at all what I had worked out," Nellie said, her voice mournful.

Jud smiled at that. It was a small smile, but genuine. "The problem with working things out," he said, "is that other folks have their own ideas."

"You didn’t have any fun tonight," Nellie said bluntly. "I’m sorry for that, Mr. Deavers."

Jud shrugged. "I’m not much for crowds, Miss Farmer."

"Call me Nellie," she said. "After all, you’re coming to Sunday dinner after church tomorrow. No need to stand on ceremony with friends."

"Friends," Jud echoed. "Well, about dinner tomorrow, Miss Farmer--Nellie, that is--"

"Don’t tell me you don’t mean to come," Nellie interrupted. "I’m counting on you, Mr. Deavers."

"Judson," he said.

Nellie nodded. "Judson. I’ve got pies baked and a chicken all drawn and ready to pop into the stewpot. If you don’t come to dinner, I’ll have to bring dinner on out to you."

She’d do it, too. He had no doubt.

Nellie smiled at him. "You stick close to me at church, and I promise to keep the crowds away from my place afterwards so you can eat your dinner in peace." She pretended to shiver. "Though we may just have Shirley take her plate out back, as sour a face as she had on her at supper tonight. Between her and Brita, it just about ruined my appetite." She laughed. "On the other hand, that’s not a bad thing, is it? Bound to help my figure."

"I have to be leery of a skinny woman, Nellie. Especially one who’s offering to serve up dinner."

It was a joke, so she chuckled, but Nellie was oddly touched by his comment. "We’ll see you at church, then, since you obviously got no reason to be leery of me."

Jud covered his thinning hair with his hat. "Well, then, I’m obliged to you."

"No, there’s no obligation, Judson. Just come. There’s always room at my table for friends."

He nodded and climbed up to the wagon seat. Norman was already stretched out in back, sound asleep, more full of food than he’d been in a year or more, and happy as a puppy about it.

Shirley was sitting quiet, the fight gone out of her.

They’d be tired come dawn, but they’d come ahead on back for church, then dinner at Nellie Farmer’s.

"Time to turn in, Nellie." It was that yellow-haired Alex Roman, draping an arm around Nellie’s shoulders like he owned her.

Jud clicked at the team and headed off. It was none of his business what a lady like Nellie Farmer was doing with a smooth talker like that one. Not any of his concern. But he had to stop himself from looking back at them just the same.

Nellie shrugged Alex’s arm off. "Don’t waste all that charm on me, Alex Roman," she said as she watched the wagon drive off down the dark main street of Williams Trace.

She felt as flat as a flapjack all of a sudden, despite the lively dancing and gay music that had gone on before. No, things hadn’t worked out tonight at all the way she’d planned. I guess I’m losing my touch, she thought and turned toward her door with a sigh.

~ * ~

"You cooled off yet, Quinton Bentley?" Brita asked as she rearranged the bodice of her new blue gown and ran a smoothing hand over her tousled flaxen hair.

"Not hardly," Quinton said in a voice half-strangled.

"Well, best pull yourself together," Brita said briskly. "The sociable’s breaking up. Time to go home." She paused to run her hand down the front of her dress and watched Quinton lick his lips like his mouth had gone dry as cotton. If she touched herself here, she thought, she could make him moan. So she did and, sure enough, Quinton whimpered. He’ll do whatever I want him to do, she thought with the thrill that comes from wielding absolute power. Pitching her voice low, she said, "It’s too bad we have to say good-night."

Quinton gulped. "If we was married, we’d never have to say good-night." His hands reached for her almost as if he had no control over them.

Because he doesn’t, Brita thought. No, but I do.

"Are you proposing?" She held him off, but her touch was as much encouragement as it was resistance.

"Sure," Quinton said recklessly, his hands moving faster than his mouth. "Marry me."

Brita slid her hands up the front of his rumpled shirt. "You mean it?" She felt his heart jump under her hand. Oh yes, he meant it. He’d promise her anything at this moment--just to get what he wanted.

"Sure I do." Quinton clutched at her.

"Well, then," Brita said, "if you mean to marry me, Quinton Bentley, there’s no harm in lingering awhile, is there?"

"L--lingering?" he echoed. His heart gave another wild jump under her hand.

"I’m sure we both have a few secrets left to share," Brita said sweetly as her hands dropped lower.

He made a sound in the back of his throat, and she could feel him tremble. He’s weak, she thought, and none too smart. But his father is rich--so I’ll just close my eyes and think of Johnwick’s Pride.

At Johnwick’s Pride there was no stink of sweat and dirt and lye soap. There was more than one room for sleeping and eating and sitting. There were rugs on the floor and draperies at the windows and slaves to do the kind of work that chaps and reddens a pretty girl’s hands. Johnwick’s Pride, Brita thought, a sigh escaping her half-parted lips.

At the sound of it, Quinton Bentley pawed at her skirts and made little panting sounds--Just like some kind of half-grown puppy, Brita thought, half indulgent and half scornful--until he found what he was searching for.

So Brita Blum closed her eyes and imagined Johnwick’s Pride lit up with the light of a thousand candles--all of them bought by Quinton Bentley’s father.

The cost of the dream wasn’t so high that she wasn’t willing to pay it. After all, it wasn’t costing her anything she valued, was it?

~ * ~

"So," Alex said as Nellie kicked off her slippers, "bright and early Monday morning we set off for Standard’s Point."

Nellie scowled at him. "You didn’t have to lift a finger to distract that girl--and you still expect me to ride with you to Standard’s Point?"

"You promised, as long as I agreed to help." Alex shrugged and grinned. "I agreed to help. A promise is a promise."

"A promise is a piecrust," Nellie muttered. "I’d just as soon break it."

"But you won’t," Alex said, his smile getting bigger. "Good night, Nellie." He disappeared into his room and the door snicked shut.

Drat the fellow. He was right. But she didn’t have to like it, did she?

It was hard to get up the next morning, but Nellie managed it--though the creased face and tangled hair that showed in the glass almost had her burrowing back under her coverlet. It would take a miracle to restore order to this particular mess--but it was Sunday, which was as good a day for miracles as any.

Once she’d splashed water on her face from the china bowl on her dresser she felt a smidgen better, and brushing out her hair and twisting it into its familiar knob helped even more.

There was a chicken to start. Judson Deavers was coming to dinner--and his kids, of course--and not a one of them would go away hungry from her table if Nellie Farmer had anything to say about it.

Besides which the thought of cooking kept other thoughts at bay--like what a miserable matchmaker she’d turned out to be, and how she’d gotten herself stuck in that promise of going with Alex Roman to Standard’s Point on the morrow.

The urge to crawl back into bed hit her anew, but she shook it off and headed out to consign that chicken to its watery grave.

~ * ~

"Forgive," Maurice Galway urged his congregation. "Forgive and forget--four hundred and ninety times if you have to! Leave the past where it belongs and step into a brighter, happier future--without that heavy burden of grudge and rancor to drag you down."

How does he do that? Nellie wondered as she shifted in her seat for the umpteenth time. It’s like he’s talking straight to me. Well, maybe I like being dragged down by grudge and rancor! Maybe I like revisiting the past! I’d sure rather visit the past than visit my gol-darned sister!

Alex sat next to her, as pious as a choirboy.

I hope he’s listening to this, Nellie thought with an inward scowl. He’s got some past to let go of, too.

Reverend Maurice Galway made his point for the fifth time, as if he didn’t trust his flock to get it from the first four times, then wound his sermon to a close.

The choir would sing, badly, Reverend Galway would pray, at length, then Nellie could get home and add the dumplings to the stew pot.

Though maybe the Deavers wouldn’t come. They hadn’t turned up for church by the time the first wobbly number had tottered out of the mouths of the choir. She shifted, and turned to look at the benches behind her. No, there they were, she thought with a lift in the region of her heart--there at the very back. Must have slipped in late. And no wonder, with the distance they had to come this morning. The cabin was not just around the corner, after all. And last night had run late. Norman was snoozing, Shirley was downcast, and Judson--Judson was looking right at Nellie. He gave her a small nod, though there was no curve of a smile on his lips.

Well, Nellie thought as she nodded back, that’s a fine prospect for a lively meal.

"Let us pray," Maurice Galway intoned.

Nellie turned back and bowed her head. Sure, she thought. Let’s us pray. For starters, Lord, how about a new soloist for the choir? And could You handle livening up my dinner guests just a tad while You’re at it?

~ * ~

The congregation spilled out onto the church lawn, duty done for another week.

Inge hurried over to Nellie. Ignoring Alex, she grabbed Nellie with her chapped hands. "You’ll never guess! We’ve been invited to dinner at Johnwick’s Pride." Her thin face glowed at the prospect.

You won’t be so happy once you’ve tasted Persephone’s cooking, Nellie thought. Aloud, she said, "Oh, well, that’s dandy, Inge. I hope you both enjoy yourselves."

Mentally, she cleared two plates from the table as she watched Inge join the Bentleys. The Bentley four were climbing into their wagon. Persephone had a pinched look to her lips, and Ursula shared it. The apple sure didn’t fall far from the tree with those two, did it? Meanwhile, Chauncy gave a hand up to Inge, but his eyes were fixed on his son. Old Chauncy was looking a little stiff-rumped this fine Sabbath morning. And as for Quinton Bentley…

Nellie thought young Quinton was looking a little pale. Off his feed, she thought, or maybe like he’d bit off more than he could chew.

Ah, and there was Brita Blum--

"That little cat just swallowed her a canary," Nellie murmured, "feathers and all."

"Landed him hook, line and sinker," Alex said in an undertone, then grinned. "With no idea that he’s gonna get himself gutted and fried one fine day soon."

Nellie gulped. It sure looked as if Brita had landed herself the Bentley son and heir, and thought she was going to be sitting pretty out at Johnwick’s Pride ‘til the day she died.

And Inge was basking in the reflected glory. Johnwick’s Pride was a big step up from the shabby little room behind the laundry--and Inge couldn’t have looked happier if it had been her who’d landed the only son of a well-to-do landowner.

Well-to-do, that is, until Alex Roman tossed them all out on their ears and took the place over for himself.

And rightly so, a little voice in her head argued. The Bentleys don’t belong there. They’re no better than squatters.

But Inge’s got her hopes up, another little voice pointed out. It’ll be a cruel blow to find that Brita hasn’t married up in the world after all. Inge’s spoiled that girl so that she’ll be pure misery--and she’ll be sure to make everyone around her just as miserable.

Nellie shuddered. She wouldn’t wish a thwarted Brita Blum on her worst enemy.

Lord, but Grete Blum must be spinning in her grave!

Maybe it’ll teach Brita a lesson, Nellie thought. Give her a change of heart. Maybe the shock of it would humble her, turn her into a sweet and pleasant girl.

I could pass along a few words, Nellie thought. Just a few words of warning--without going into the particulars.

Brita Blum caught Nellie’s eye. Lifting her chin, her smile smug, she anchored Quinton Bentley’s arm with hers and gave a proud little toss to her head. Look at me, she seemed to say. At last I’ve got what I deserve.

Brita wouldn’t listen to a word of warning even if it came from the good Lord himself. She’d cast her net and caught herself a fine, fat fish--and nothing was going to make her turn him loose.

"Inge will never forgive me," Nellie murmured.

"What?" Alex turned back from winking at a gaggle of pretty girls, who were admiring him from afar. They all giggled, drawing their heads together to whisper until motherly scowls broke up their gossip.

Nellie sighed. Had she ever been that young? "Never mind."

She looked around. There was Abel. She’d just step over and say a word or two. He was looking peaked this morning--and the promise of chicken and dumplings was bound to cheer him up.

"Thanks, Miss Nellie, but I’ll be taking dinner at home today." Abel wasn’t looking anywhere but at Nellie’s face.

"Cornmeal mush and fat back?"

Abel’s grin was weak. "Just like Mama used to make."

"Come by for pie, at least," Nellie coaxed, but Abel was shaking his head and backing away.

Mentally, she cleared another plate. The Deavers would be next to bow out, she thought fatalistically. If they do, I’m just going back to bed and Alex can fend for himself.

But the Deavers were waiting on Nellie’s porch. None of them looked particularly comfortable, but Nellie ignored that and set them all to tasks. Dinner was on the table in thirty minutes and Norman, at least, looked considerably cheered by the spread.

"Promised you small numbers today, Judson," Nellie said as she handed him a bowl of buttered beans.

Jud nodded, then cleared his throat. "I’d as soon have given the Reverend Galway’s sermon a miss. Hit a little close to home."

Nellie chuckled. "I thought it was just me." She shot a look at Shirley, who was sitting small and droopy in her chair. "Sometimes we act rash, but that don’t mean things can’t be mended."

"If we want them to be," Alex said, a glint in his eye. "So, Deavers, what do you do?"

Jud may have been caught off guard by the switch in topic, but his answer was steady enough. "Carpenter," he said, "and wood crafter. You?"

"I’m a dabbler," Alex said with a grin, "but that’s about to change. Got my eye on some land, and I mean to settle down." He turned his grin on Nellie, sharing the joke.

Nellie made herself smile back, though she couldn’t help worrying about Inge.

Judson Deavers looked at the two of them smiling at each other and, like his daughter, got a little exercise by jumping to conclusions.

After pie and coffee, Alex offered to drive them back out to their place. "Nellie and I will be using the wagon ourselves tomorrow," he said. "So I might as well get a feel for how the team handles."

"Mules are mules," Jud said mildly. "But we’d be obliged to you for the lift."

"Thank you for coming," Nellie said, offering Jud her hand to shake. "You’re welcome any time, Judson."

"Thank you, Miss Farmer." Jud’s voice was stiff, his handshake brief. "But we won’t want to impose."

Nellie was taken aback. Hadn’t they been making a little progress? Didn’t Judson Deavers consider her a friend by now? Maybe she’d overdone it, overwhelmed them with her gifts of pies and bread and household trinkets, when what they preferred was to be left alone.

"Thank you for the dress, Miss Farmer," Shirley whispered. "I have some shelled pecans in the wagon. Not near enough, but I’ll collect more."

"Fine," Nellie said. "And if you’ve a mind to learn baking, you just come to me and I’ll share what I know. It never hurts to have a skill that you can turn to profit." She thought briefly of Brita Blum, and winced. That one had a skill, right enough. And profitable it could be, too.

"I’d like that," Shirley said. For a lively girl, she was plenty subdued this afternoon. "Miss Farmer, does Abel--?"

"Come on, Shirl," Norman interrupted. "I want to check on my lizard. See if he’s hungry."

Shirley rolled her eyes, but she followed her brother to the door.

"Come tomorrow," Nellie urged. "No, drat it all! Tomorrow won’t do. Come Tuesday, Shirley. I’ll send Abel out to collect you and we’ll have ourselves a baking lesson."

"Abel won’t want to collect me," Shirley said, but her voice sounded hopeful.

"Well, he’ll have to, won’t he?" Nellie said. "He works for me, don’t he? I’ll send him out on Tuesday to bring you into town. I’ll be glad of the help, too, since I’ll have extra baking to do anyhow." She threw a sour look at Alex. "I won’t be doing it tomorrow."

"I’ll ask Daddy," Shirley said. "Daddy?"

Alex was as relaxed as could be, chatting with Judson as if they were old friends, despite the older man’s one-word contributions.

"What is it, Shirl?" Jud looked relieved for an excuse to turn away from the younger man.

"Miss Farmer says she could use some help baking on Tuesday. I told her I’d be proud to lend a hand."

"Suit yourself," he said with a shrug and climbed into the wagon.

"I’ll let Abel know I need him to make a delivery then," Nellie said, smiling at Shirley.

But her feelings were hurt at Judson Deavers’ sudden chill. What had gotten into the man? I guess now wouldn’t be the time to bring up the building of that covered walkway of mine, Nellie thought, but she wished she could say something to warm the man up again.

"I’ll be back in awhile, Nellie," Alex said, tossing her a wink as he climbed up and sat himself down on the wagon seat. "We got some talking to do to get ready for tomorrow."

"You talk," Nellie said. She crossed her arms. "I said I’d go. I didn’t say I’d chit-chat along the way."

Alex laughed at her, and he was still chuckling as he nudged the team into a walk.

~ * ~

"Miss Farmer makes the best chicken and dumplings I ever ate," Norman declared as Alex Roman drove off, leaving the Deavers in front of their borrowed cabin. "I wish she’d sent some home with us."

"How could she?" Shirley asked. "You ate every last bite."

"Well, she could’ve sent along a pie," Norman said. "I wouldn’t have said no to a pie."

"She’s done more than enough already," Judson said. He shrugged out of his worn jacket and reached for the limp ribbon that had done duty as a string tie. He’d had his fill of the town, and more than his fill of Nellie Farmer’s recipes. He’d stick to his woodworking--With her tools, he reminded himself in a self-mocking way--and leave her to that yellow-haired fellow who was too young for her and the type that was sure to go breaking her heart. It was none of his business anyway, was it? He wished Nellie Farmer happiness with that rascal Alex Roman.

Though he doubted she’d find it.

He closed his eyes and dredged up a memory of Doloros--but the memory no longer had the power to pain him as it had once done.

No, there were fresher pains.

And the worst of them was that he had started to feel himself coming back to life. Hope had reared its ugly head and promptly bitten him on his nether regions. Coming back to life hurt, because happiness wasn’t any closer to hand than it had ever been.

~ * ~

Brita was acting as demure and sweet a miss as any future mother-in-law would wish for her only son. This eased the pinched mouth of Persephone Bentley a little. Still, it was her duty to fuss at the kitchen slave about the state of the beef roast, though Persephone herself had insisted on starting it before church. It was now black and dry, better suited to a saw than a carving knife. The creamed potatoes were too wet, and the cake had sunk in the middle like a sinkhole in a road. But this is an engagement dinner, Persephone thought grimly, and we’ll just have to make the best of it.

She wasn’t sure if she meant the dinner, or the engagement itself.

Inge had stars in her eyes, but even they weren’t bright enough to keep her from noticing the dust in the house, and the smudges at the windows, and the dirt ground into the carpet.

Johnwick’s Pride had an air of neglect that made Inge Blum suddenly uneasy. It was the biggest place around--but it was obviously not the best-managed. Maybe they ought to take a second look at Junior Miller. She shot a look at Brita, who was dimpling up at Quinton Bentley. His cheeks were red, and his collar looked like it was strangling him. But there was no mistaking the look in his eyes.

Too late, Inge thought in despair. Well, they’d just have to make the best of it then. Maybe all Persephone Bentley needed was a helping hand. She wasn’t used to hard work, maybe, and didn’t know where to begin to set things to rights.

They’ve lived here for three years or more, a little voice jeered. She’d have to be slow as a turnip not to have made some progress in all that time.

All right, then, Persephone Bentley was lazy. But that didn’t mean Brita couldn’t return this place to its former glory. All it would take was a little elbow grease--

Inge looked at her sister, who couldn’t even be bothered to brush her own hair, and felt suddenly, completely sick.

I’m sorry, Mutti, she thought. I’ve made a mess, haven’t I?

At first, Nellie meant to wear her oldest dress to Standard’s Point. No sense in trying to outstrip her younger sister. Penelope was the looker of the family, always had been, and Nellie would just feel foolish trying to compete with her.

But when it came right down to it, she couldn’t bring herself to shake out the calico and knot her hair up into its usual lump. That would be like giving up.

So she buttoned into her dark blue church dress instead, and caught her taffy-colored hair back in a loose twist, with a few wisps of hair to make a soft frame of her face. She clipped her mother’s pearl earbobs to her ears, smiling grimly at the memory of Penelope whining that it wasn’t fair they went to the older daughter when the prettier one would get more use out of them.

She had been as much at fault for Penelope’s behavior as Inge was for Brita’s. Hadn’t she spared her sister the bumps and pains of growing up motherless, with a drunk for a father, shouldering it all herself so that her pretty sister could make something better of her life?

Nellie shook her head. No sense thinking about Laurence Foster any sooner than she had to. It would be as hard to come face to face with him today as it would be to see Penelope.

But it was time.

The burden of carrying a grudge was suddenly too much to haul around one more day. Maurice Galway was right, for all his long-windedness. When you don’t forgive, you’re only hurting yourself.

She could hear Alex rummaging around in the other room. He’d be hungry. She didn’t know all his secrets--not by a long shot--but here was a fellow who had a wish to take care of his mother, to make up for the husband who’d wronged her all those years back.

And Nellie meant to help him go about it--even if it cost her Inge’s friendship.

~ * ~

"You look fine, Nellie," Alex said when he finally emerged from his room. His yellow hair was slicked back and his hat dusted.

"You don’t look so bad yourself. Want some breakfast?"

She wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. She didn’t feel much like eating this morning either.

Which was not a bad thing, when you came right down to it. A few more trips to Standard’s Point to fret about, Nellie thought, and I could be as slim as Inge Blum.

She shook her head at her foolishness.

"I’ll bring the wagon around," Alex said.

Nellie nodded, then turned to tuck a few things into a basket. Just because they weren’t hungry now didn’t mean they wouldn’t be later on.

~ * ~

"I’ll need a white dress," Brita said as Inge dipped the shirt in the washtub, then scrubbed it against the ribbed board.

"White?" Inge echoed. "White would be making a lie, Brita."

Brita’s cheeks got pink, but she tossed her head. "And new shoes. We can’t host a wedding supper here." She looked around the laundry with a curl of disgust on her pretty lips. "But maybe Miss Nellie--"

"No." Inge gave the shirt one last ferocious scrub, then slung it in the rinse tub. "If you’re so set on a wedding supper, have it out at Johnwick’s Pride. Maybe it’ll inspire the Bentleys to give the place a good cleaning."

Brita considered it, then nodded. "It’s better there, isn’t it? Maybe we should have the wedding there, too, instead of at the church."

"That would be a good idea," Inge said grimly, "considering…"

Brita tossed her head again. "Well, I don’t think it was so bad. I got what I wanted out of it, didn’t I?"

"Mutti used to say ‘Be careful what you wish for, for you may get it’."

"Mutti never got anything she wished for," Brita said. "I mean to have it all."

"I wish you luck," Inge said, reaching for another shirt. "But you’ll have to come up with your own white dress."

~ * ~

"You’ve been moping around this house like the ghost of some poor dead Indian." Verna Louise Galway paused in her sweeping to take a good long look at her oldest son. "Don’t you have work to do?"

"Miss Nellie’s got the wagon today," Abel said with a sigh.

"Then go muck out Loomis’s livery," Verna Louise said. "You’re underfoot and as gloomy as a rain cloud."

"Don’t feel like mucking out the livery," Abel said.

At that, Verna Louise whacked him with her broom. "You think I feel like sweeping?" She whacked him again. "I don’t. So just get on out of here and find some place to make yourself useful."

Abel got to his feet and headed for the door.

"Where’s Nellie gone to?" she asked as an afterthought.

"Drove off with that Alex Roman," Abel said on his way out.

Verna Louise paused. She didn’t trust that Alex Roman--no, no farther than she could throw a steam engine. He had a familiar look about him, for all he was new in town. She considered. Of whom was it he reminded her?

The Butterwicks, that’s who. And heaven knew they were an underhanded lot, if gossip ran true.

Nellie should have steered clear of that one, no doubt about it. He was trouble, with a capital T.

~ * ~

"What’s the name of this lawyer fellow?" Alex asked.

"Merriweather," Nellie said. "Sirius. Or maybe Cecil. Studied law over by way of Austin for a number of years, or so the Standards said."

"Standards," Alex echoed. "Were they named after the town, this honeymoon couple of yours?"

"I think the town was named after them," Nellie retorted. "Or his daddy or grandaddy, maybe. Anyway, the Standards are still the biggest toads in the puddle."

"So if Standard’s Point is named after a Standard, who is Williams Trace named after? Who’s William?"

"Williams," Nellie said. "Fergus Williams. He traced himself a niche--and then he died before he could scatter any seeds. The only part left of him is the name."

"I’d think you all would want to change it."

Nellie shrugged. "We got no better ideas so far."

They rode along in silence for a few minutes.

"There it is," Nellie said. "Standard’s Point. I expect the sheriff can direct us to this Merriweather fellow."

Alex slid her a look. "And anyone else we might happen to want to look up."

In the end, though, they stopped at the High Standards Hotel. Alex tied up the team, then took Nellie by the arm and steered her up the steps. Pushing the door open, he let her precede him in, then followed, whistling softly when he got a good look at the place.

"Sure has got my little nook beat," Nellie murmured.

"Can I help you two? Looking for a room, are you?"

The voice came from a little short woman, as wide as she was tall, with cheeks a little too pink and lips redder than natural. Even her hair had a brassy sheen to it, as if the color God had blessed it with had been tinkered with by less skilled hands than His.

"We have nice rooms," the woman went on, batting her eyelashes at Alex, "for you and your--" The woman glanced back at Nellie, then her face went white under its paint. "Nellie!"

Nellie’s jaw dropped. "Penny! What’s happened to you?" Why, her little sister was fatter than a heifer bound for slaughter! "Laurence been force-feeding you against a harsh winter?" Of course, she immediately wished she could take back the words; that didn’t look to be the best way to start off a family reunion.

The other woman drew herself up to her full, insignificant height. "Laurence has gone to his reward," she said with dignity, "and I don’t notice the sun shining through you neither, Nellie Jane Farmer."

"Laurence died?" Nellie said. She could hardly take it in. Between that and the sight of her once dainty sister, she wasn’t even sure she could catch her breath without choking.

"No," Penelope said. "Laurence did not die. He went to his reward--in California. Back in forty-nine. Liked it so well he chose to stay." She drew herself up a little taller. "We found we did not suit."

Nellie stared at her sister until she felt Alex shaking. She looked at him and scowled, but he was laughing so hard he didn’t notice.

She looked back at Penelope--spoiled, pretty Penelope, who was now as fat and alone as Nellie. "Gone to his reward," she repeated. "Well, he earned it." And she grinned, and the grin turned into a chuckle, and before she knew it, she was laughing as hard as Alex Roman.

Turned out Penelope wasn’t offended. She’d mellowed some over the years--and better yet, she knew just where to find Cecil Merriweather.

"He’s joining me for luncheon this very day," she said, giving her hair a pat, "here at the hotel."

"You run this place?" Nellie asked, fascinated by this creature who bore so little resemblance to the sister she’d once both loved and resented.

Penelope tittered. "My goodness, no! I’m just holding down the fort, so to speak, until the owner finds a new manager. The old manager got married awhile back, and wants to concentrate on her wifely duties."

"That would be Clementine Standard," Nellie said to Alex. "The bride I was telling you about." She took another look around, her face rueful. "If I’d had any idea she ran a place as fine as this, I’d have been downright humiliated offering the pair of them my best rent room for their wedding night."

Alex grinned. "I got no quarrel with your best rent room, Nellie."

Nellie’s cheeks got pink. Why, Alex was making it sound completely off true. She sneaked a look at Penelope, who was looking at her sister with new eyes, obviously impressed. And bless him for it, Nellie thought. She gave a little toss of her head that was two parts Brita Blum, had she but seen it, and murmured, "Well, we aim to please."

It appeared that, though Penelope’s waistline had increased, her appetite for attention had not slackened along the way. She was all set to beguile Alex Roman away from her sister--except that Alex wasn’t beguiling the way he ought.

When Cecil Merriweather showed up, it was clear that Penelope Foster was stacking him up against Alex Roman and finding him sadly lacking.

Cecil was a short man, and thin. He was nervous-looking, with nondescript brown hair and intelligent brown eyes. If he was disappointed to find two extra guests for luncheon, he hid it behind very nice manners, and turned out to have interesting contributions to add to the noon time conversation.

Mr. Merriweather suggested they save the business talk for later. If Mrs. Foster didn’t mind, he and Mr. Roman would retire to the hotel office after their meal and go over the facts of the matter Mr. Roman had come here to discuss.

If the man had been hoping for a different sort of dessert after his meal at the hotel, he didn’t let on.

"A nice man," Nellie called him when Cecil and Alex had excused themselves. "You could do worse."

Penelope licked her finger and pressed it to her plate, catching the last of the crumbs. There was a sulky look about her mouth that was all too familiar. "Well, he’s not too bad--but how ever did you land yourself a suitor like Alex Roman?" She sighed, her appetite in her eyes. "Why, he’s delicious, Nellie! I could just gobble him right up!"

"Alex don’t take kindly to being gobbled," Nellie said.

"Well, he’d like it if I were the one doing it," Penelope said with the supreme self-confidence of the truly oblivous.

Huh, Nellie thought. "So, do you mean to wed Mr. Merriweather?" Nellie pitied the man if the answer was yes.

But Penelope pulled an injured look. "How can I marry, Nellie? I’m still wed to Laurence Foster, aren’t I?"

"He’s been in California--what? Eight years? You could cut him loose for desertion. By now," Nellie pointed out, "he could be shacked up with a Mexican señorita and a half-dozen little muchachos anyhow."

"He would never!" The very thought of it seemed to offend Penelope to her core.

That’s what I’d be doing, Nellie thought, were I him and married to this silly piece of baggage. "Well," she said aloud, "you know him better than I ever did. You’re probably right."

They chatted awhile longer, and Nellie was surprised at the ease of it. Sure, her sister was changed on the outside, but the years hadn’t done a whole lot of redecorating on the inside. There were still things Nellie could see to be fond of, and things that still annoyed her like anything.

But Reverend Galway was right, drat him! Nellie thought when Alex at last emerged from the office with Cecil. It’s better to forgive. Better for me--even if it don’t matter one whit to Penny.

Nellie had spent all these years with a stewpot of resentment simmering--but when it finally came time to swallow it down, she had no appetite for it. She had no wish to have it out with her sister once and for all. The years had dished out their own flavor of retribution, with Laurence Foster apparently regretting his choice so many years ago.

Nellie probed around her heart and found no lingering pain, so she was able to smile her relief at Alex--and was pleased to see him looking easier himself. "Got it all worked out, have you?" she asked.

"Mr. Merriweather here thinks it’ll be a simple matter. He’ll gather some papers together and travel to Williams Trace to meet up with Sheriff Caldwell." Alex reached over and caught Nellie’s hand, giving it a squeeze. "He says to go ahead and send for my mama. By the time she’s in town, we’ll have ourselves a place to move in to."

"That’s wonderful, Alex!" Nellie returned the pressure of his hand, then turned to the lawyer. "We’re obliged to you, Mr. Merriweather! And I’d be pleased as punch for you to stay in my extra rent room while you’re in town. It’s not as fancy as this place," she said with another look around, "but it’s cozy, and I’m thought to be a pretty decent cook."

"The best in Texas," Alex said.

"That would be fine, Miss Farmer. I would appreciate your hospitality. I don’t--er--travel particularly well--"

"Chew on some mint leaves," Nellie said promptly, "and when you get to Williams Trace, I’ll brew you up some of my special tea. It’ll set you to rights in a flash."

The little man nodded, a smile dressing up his face.

"Bring Penelope along," Nellie suggested impulsively. She turned to her sister. "Give us a chance to spend a little time together. Catch up."

But Penelope was shaking her head. "While Mr. Merriweather don’t travel well," she said, "why, I don’t travel at all. Else I’d have joined Laurence in California half a dozen years ago."

"There’s a difference," Nellie said. "Williams Trace is just a few hours’ drive."

But Penelope was adamant. And Nellie could see that Cecil Merriweather didn’t look much cast down at her decision to stay put. So they weren’t serious in their courting then, Nellie thought. And a good thing, too, with Penelope still married.

"Well, we’d best start back," Nellie said when they’d exchanged a few more pleasantries. "I’ve got a pile of work to do tomorrow." She hesitated, then reached to embrace her sister. "It was good to see you again, Penny. It’s been too long."

Penelope hugged her back, then pulled away and dabbed at her eyes before the blacking on her lashes could run. "Don’t be a stranger, Nellie."

Cecil Merriweather walked out with Alex and Nellie. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Farmer." He looked at her, his eyes perceptive. "You are--er--not much like your sister."

"Thank the Lord for that," Alex murmured.

Cecil probably heard him, because his lips twitched, but he kept his tone grave. "Mr. Roman, we’ll get this matter worked out for you in no time."

"I’m much obliged," Alex said, then reached to grip Merriweather’s hand in a firm handshake.

"Don’t forget the mint leaves, Mr. Merriweather," Nellie said as Alex handed her up to the wagon seat. "They’ll do your stomach a world of good."

"I won’t forget," the lawyer said. "Thank you, Miss Farmer."

Alex climbed up and picked up the reins. With a nod to Merriweather, he urged the team forward. "Shall we tool around Standard’s Point awhile with this fine team of mules?" he asked. "Check out the goods in the mercantile? Ogle the natives?"

"If it’s all the same to you, Alex, I’d rather just go on home."

Alex settled his hat more firmly on his head and grinned over at her. "Me, too."

~ * ~

"What you doing, Daddy?"

Judson Deavers fitted the last of the borrowed tools into its place in the box and closed the lid. He took his time about it, too, then finally looked at his son. "I’m thinking it’s time we moved on. We can’t just keep borrowing, Norman. It isn’t right. These tools and this cabin belong to someone else."

But it wasn’t the tools and the cabin he was thinking of. Not really. He was thinking of the generous-hearted woman who also appeared to belong to someone else. Alex Roman might not mean to hold her as close as she deserved, but he didn’t look like he’d have a mind to share, either. And Jud drew the line at borrowing a woman anyway. No, it was all or nothing, as he’d learned with Doloros. And it’s generally nothing, he thought with a sigh.

When had Judson Deavers stepped across that gap that had kept his heart safe for all these years? How in the world had Nellie Farmer worked her way past the bramble fencing he’d thrown up around his heart? Seemed like all he could think about was putting his arms around her, inhaling the fresh bread scent of her. Then leading her into that back room of hers, unpinning her taffy colored hair, and kissing her until they were both out of breath from it.

Judson Deavers longed for a woman’s touch. No, it was more than that. What he longed for was that one woman’s touch.

But it appeared that one particular woman was bestowing her touches elsewhere. And why not? Jud thought. Roman is everything I’m not. He’s young and bright-eyed and smiling--without the stink of failure that hangs over Judson Deavers like skunk.

Of course, he’s also a rascal and bound to break her heart, Jud thought sourly, but who am I to judge? There’s no guarantees when it comes to the heart.

"Daddy?"

Jud broke off his reverie and took a good look at his son. "Well?"

"I think we ought to stay." Norman’s ears got red, but he kept his chin up. "Just until things with Shirl are settled. She’s got her a chance to make a place for herself in town with that job Miss Farmer’s offering--and it ain’t right hauling a girl around from place to place like some kind of knapsack. When things for Shirl are set, then you and I can head on out--go wherever you’ve a mind to." The power of this brave speech was weakened by his mutter at the end. Something about missing the pie and bread.

"We’re borrowing trouble," Jud said after a minute.

Norman shrugged. "So what? It can’t be worse than the trouble we already own out right."

Norman didn’t understand, Jud thought. Norman had had aches a-plenty, but none of them in this particular corner of the heart.

But that would come soon enough.

Jud sighed. "All right then, son. Just until Shirley is settled." He reached for the box of tools. He might as well get some work done in the meantime. Maybe he could sell a few pieces, like Abel Galway had suggested. It wouldn’t hurt to have a few coins on hand when the time came to leave.

Abel was reluctant when Nellie told him to drive out and collect Shirley Deavers on Tuesday morning.

"What’s gotten into you?" Nellie snapped. "Afraid of a little slip of a thing like that? She won’t bite, Abel."

Now that he was on his way, the team stepping at a far brisker pace than he wished, Abel figured he’d just have to make the best of it. So little Miss Deavers had gone and done a flip-flop on him. So what? He was the son of a minister, wasn’t he? He could just turn the other cheek and when she told him to carry her a mile, why he’d just go on and carry her twain. No use casting pearls before swine--though it was hard going to picture that one, in Abel’s mind. He didn’t feel much like a pearl, and there was nothing pig-like about Shirley. Maybe it worked better the other way around. Maybe he was the pig and Miss Shirley Deavers the pearl. But casting swine before pearls was even harder to picture.

Abel sighed, and his stomach rumbled.

That was the trick, then. Think about the raisin bread he was going to eat when he delivered Shirley Deavers to Miss Nellie’s door step.

His stomach grumbled again.

"Hey, Abel Galway, give me a lift out to Bentleys?" It was Brita Blum, looking a little wilted around the edges this morning, like she’d got up earlier than she wanted for some kind of reason that wasn’t too cheering.

If she’d been her usual pert self, he’d have just driven right on by, but there was a hangdog look about her--and Abel couldn’t just leave her. "Climb on up," he said as he held the reins steady.

"Give me a hand," Brita said, which was as close to thanks as she ever got. He did, and she slid into place next to him and settled herself.

Abel clicked to the team, and they headed on down the road. He didn’t feel much like talking, and Brita, for a change, was on the quiet side. But halfway to Johnwick’s Pride, she said, "I’m marrying Quinton Bentley."

Abel was deep into his own thoughts, so he didn’t catch it the first time and she had to repeat herself. "Why?" he asked when she had.

Brita gave a toss to her head that sent her flaxen hair in a little dance down her back. "He’s a good catch. The best left in this particular pond, anyway."

"Think so?" Abel wasn’t offended in the least. In fact, it was a true indicator to how his feelings had changed that he didn’t feel even the slightest twinge of regret. "I don’t know, Brita. Johnwick’s Pride is looking a little run down. Maybe Quinton’s not as good a catch as you think."

Brita tossed her head again. "You’re just jealous," she said, "because you’ll never own a place as fine." She paused, lifting her chin a little higher. "No, nor have a wife like me."

"Lord, I hope not," Abel said with a laugh that didn’t offer much in the way of flattery. His thoughts didn’t turn to large spreads run on the backs of slaves, no, nor to wives as expensive and complaining as Brita Blum promised to be. When he thought about marriage, and he was doing that more and more these days, it was a brown-haired girl that came to mind, and a tidy little cabin somewhere--like the one the Deavers were borrowing.

Abel suddenly felt a pang that was worse than the growling of an empty stomach.

How could he have misread things so badly? Here he’d gone spinning daydreams like spider silk--only to find himself wrapped up in a discouraging web of his own design.

Abel sighed as Brita prattled on about wedding dresses and three-tiered cakes with spun sugar icing. Dang, but Brita Blum was a tiresome girl! What had he been thinking of all that time he’d been mooning over her? Abel slapped the reins along the backsides of the team and the mules picked up their pace. The sooner he unloaded this particular baggage, the happier he’d be.

His stomach rumbled again. Think of the raisin bread, he told himself, but it was the memory of a pair of fine eyes that came to mind instead.

Abel dropped his passenger off in the circle drive in front of Johnwick’s Pride. Ursula Bentley was the one who opened the door to her, and Brita’s arrival was obviously neither expected nor welcomed. But the ill-mannered greeting wasn’t going to make a difference to Brita; she wasn’t much for the niceties herself. Abel drove away without a word of thanks from the girl, or even a backward glance.

Never mind that. Who needed Brita Blum’s thanks? In fact, who needed anything from her? He had a more important delivery to make this fine Tuesday morning. Maybe the ride back to town would give him a chance to figure out how to get himself back in to Miss Shirley Deavers’ good graces.

The thought cheered him.

~ * ~

"You should wear your party dress," Norman said.

Shirley threw him a look of scorn. "To work in? Whatever for? So I can look like a blamed fool?"

"It looks pretty," Norman said, and Shirley’s jaw dropped.

She crossed to her brother and put a hand to his forehead. "You taking sick?"

Norman ducked away. "I ain’t sick. I’m entitled to my opinion, ain’t I?"

"Well, yeah, Norman, but you never had an opinion on a dress in your whole life."

His ears got red, but he held his ground. "You look better in the pink one," he said. "I think you should wear it. Abel would like it."

Shirley’s face heated, but she kept her voice steady. "I’m dressing to work," she said, "not to try to catch the eye of someone who’s looking in another direction."

"He’d be looking at you if you wore the pink one," Norman insisted, a stubborn set to his chin.

"Well, he didn’t waste any time looking at me the last two times I wore it." Shirley turned away.

Norman hooted. "Are you crazy, Shirl? He didn’t do nothing but look at you." He clutched his gut, as if the memory of it made his stomach turn. "You was plain foolish not to dance with him."

"He didn’t ask." Shirley didn’t look at her brother, but her heart was jumping. Abel had been looking at her all that time? When she’d made a point of looking everywhere but at him?

"How could he when you kept running away?" Norman made a noise of disgust. "I never figured you for a coward, Shirl. No, nor one to roll over and play dead, neither. If you want pie, you got to ask for it, and if no one passes you a plate, why, you just help yourself. Hell, Shirl, I like Abel."

"Don’t swear," Shirley said promptly, then added something under her breath that sounded like, "I like him, too."

"Daddy thinks we should be moving on," Norman said bluntly. "You don’t have time to shilly-shally. Get Abel to marry you, Shirl--unless you want to keep rattling around from place to place for the rest of your life."

"You don’t understand. It’s not that simple, Norm."

Norman shrugged. "He likes you. You like him. What’s hard about that? Wear the pink dress," he suggested again, then slammed out of the cabin.

Shirley ignored that bit of her brother’s advice, but she was still mulling over the rest of what he’d said when she heard the wagon pull up outside, and Abel’s voice call, "Hello to the Deavers!"

She hadn’t truly been thinking about marriage up to now. But why not? Lots of girls married young. Sixteen wasn’t uncommon. And Abel Galway was just the kind of fellow she’d want--if she had any say in the choosing. He had kind eyes and strong hands, broad shoulders and a smile that was slow and steady. He wasn’t afraid of hard work, no, nor of lending a helping hand when one was needed.

"Shirley," she heard her daddy call, "your ride’s here."

Well, Shirley thought, the test will be when I come sashaying out in my work dress. It’s easy for someone’s eyes to light up when you’re looking your best--but the real truth shines through even when you’re not.

She put her hand on the door and pushed it open, stepping out on the porch and raising her chin a notch so she could look straight at Abel.

It was just for one unguarded moment--but she saw something in his eyes that gave her hope.

Abel Galway, she thought, letting her smile unfurl like a canvas sail. She liked the look of him--and judging from that one little flash, he didn’t mind the work dress.

"Hey, Miss Shirley." Abel scrambled down to hand her up into the wagon, just as if she was a queen in a velvet gown. "I’ll carry her back before supper time," he told Judson.

Judson Deavers smiled. "I trust you, Abel."

"Maybe Miss Farmer’ll send us a pie," Norman said hopefully.

"Maybe I’ll bake one myself," Shirley said.

Norman made a face. "I’d rather have one of hers."

Shirley laughed, turning to catch Abel’s eye. He was looking down at her with a softness to his face that warmed her to her core. She felt her face get hot, so she looked away, but not before letting him see what was in her eyes.

At least, she hoped he could see it.

Abel slapped the reins along the backsides of the team and the wagon rolled forward with a lurch. Shirley turned to wave back at her brother and father.

Norm had a funny look on his face; Shirley couldn’t read it.

Daddy, though, had a bleakness about him that made Shirley shiver. Not that it was unfamiliar. Judson Deavers had been kicked so many times that he was expecting it by now. But Shirley thought what it would be like if she was to stay on here and have to watch him move on without her. He was a lonely man anyway, Shirley thought, but she wasn’t sure she could bear to see him like that, with only Norm to prop him up, when she belonged there at his other side.

All her dreams of settling down--and maybe marrying this boy beside her--popped like a bubble of soap.

Another female with the last name of Deavers had done wrong by her daddy. Could Shirley do the same? She didn’t think so.

~ * ~

Abel cleared his throat and made a clumsy attempt to start a conversation, but he could tell Shirley had something else on her mind. He hoped it was him, but when he caught a look of her face, he changed his mind. He hoped it wasn’t him--because there was a sadness in her eyes, a hollow look to her face, that would bode ill for his future happiness if he was the reason those shadows were there.

"Miss Nellie is a talker," Abel said after awhile. "No doubt about that. But she’s a listener, too, Miss Shirley."

Shirley nodded, then kept her head down, her eyes on her hands, as if she’d never seen them before.

Abel sighed. He’d thought for a minute there, when she’d stepped out of the cabin, that this was going to be easy. She’d looked at him like he was something special, like she couldn’t wait to be sitting up here beside him.

But something had leeched the joy out of her all of a sudden--and Abel wondered if it was him.

~ * ~

Alex pushed his chair back and reached to clear his dishes.

"You aren’t done?" Nellie cried.

He grinned. "I eat any more and I’ll be stuffed like a Christmas turkey--and I’ll just have to loll around here all day instead of getting any work done." His grin broadened. "Come to think of it, that don’t sound so bad. Pass me another stack of flapjacks."

Nellie whisked his plate away and plunged it into the soapy wash basin. "Never let it be said that Nellie Farmer contributed to a man’s natural laziness. If you got work to do, then get after it, Alex Roman." She gave the plate a swipe with the wash rag, then looked up with a poor attempt at looking innocent. "And what kind of work would that be?"

"Your casual air don’t fool me for a minute, Miss Nellie Farmer." Alex was openly laughing at her. "What work could I have, now that it’s hurry up and wait for Mr. Merriweather, you’re wondering. Isn’t that right? Unless it’s mischief, which we both know ain’t my style."

Nellie snorted.

Alex stood. He was still smiling, but there was something in his eyes that stopped Nellie from teasing. "I mean to go get my mama," Alex said. Then he hesitated. "That is, if you’ll let us rent your other rent room until the Bentley matter is settled."

"Of course I will," Nellie said. "I’m looking forward to meeting the woman that survived raising you. She must be just about ready for sainthood."

Alex got a funny look on his face for a second, but then his grin was back in place, and he nodded. "She’ll like you, Nellie. But there’ll be no swapping stories about me behind my back, hear?"

"Mercy, but you got a high opinion of yourself, honey!" Nellie said airily. "Why on earth would you think we’d waste time talking about you?" As Alex caught up his hat and settled it over his yellow hair, Nellie couldn’t stop herself from asking, "How long’ll you be gone?"

Alex stepped closer, mischief in his eyes. "Will you miss me?" he asked, making his voice husky.

Drat the fellow! Even when Nellie knew he was teasing, it still jolted her like a cup of Verna Louise Galway’s truly bad coffee. "Not much," she managed, though it came out a little breathless.

To her shock, Alex put an arm around her and dropped a kiss on her temple. "Admit it," he coaxed. "Admit you’ll miss my smiling face, Nellie Farmer."

"Like cockle burrs in my stockings," Nellie agreed. "Or shells in my pecan pie."

He didn’t believe her, of course. No, he had too clear a picture of his effect on women--of all ages. But he gave her a friendly squeeze, and planted another kiss--this time on her cheek.

And that was how they were arranged when Abel Galway pushed open the door to guide Shirley Deavers into the room.

Nellie was flustered to begin with, but having an audience made it worse. She flushed red to the roots of her hair, and pulled away as if she had something to feel guilty about. Alex, drat him, just laughed that laugh of his, and saluted the newcomers with two fingers to the brim of his hat.

"I’m off then, Nellie," he said, casual as could be. Then he winked at her. "Don’t wait up."

Abel was at least as red in the face as Nellie, and stunned to a state of complete wordlessness. There was no doubt which way his mind was running all of a sudden--and it was hard work, by the looks of it.

Shirley’s eyes were big, but she wasn’t one to mind the broken slats of a bridge. She just hopped over them. "What do you want me to do first, Miss Farmer?" she asked, shrugging off her shawl. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Abel. "Thank you for going to the trouble of coming out to fetch me, Abel."

"It wasn’t trouble," Abel managed, though he was still discombobulated.

"I’m sure you have work to do," Shirley prompted him. "So we’ll see you later."

"Later," he repeated, then pulled himself together long enough to stumble out the door.

Nellie was also no stranger to the idea of taking a bull by its horns. "It wasn’t anything," she said to Shirley, though her cheeks were still hot. "What you walked in on."

Shirley shrugged. "It’s not any of my business anyhow. Now, what do you want me to do first?"

~ * ~

Abel had some hauling to do, so he headed the wagon toward the mercantile almost without thinking about it. How could he think about destinations when his mind was whirling in another direction altogether?

His mama had been right all along. That yellow-haired Alex Roman was flirting with Miss Nellie. Outrage bubbled up in him. Why, Miss Nellie was old enough to be his mother! Or at least an aunt or something. Anyway, well past the age of thinking about such things as kissing! It wasn’t proper.

He stopped in front of the mercantile, climbed down from the wagon seat, and suddenly thought of something that made him a sight more uncomfortable.

Hadn’t his own parents begat seven children? How did Abel think that had happened, huh? Maybe by passing the cornmeal mush back and forth come Sunday supper?

Hadn’t he seen his mother touch the back of his father’s hand just last night as they were turning down the lamps in the front room? And hadn’t there been a few whisperings and murmurings curling like smoke down the hall once the house was dark for the night? Abel had buried his head under his pillow--but that hadn’t blocked out the thought of the Reverend Maurice Galway and his wife, Verna Louise, sharing a bed--and probably a lot more--once the sun went down.

All right then, so Miss Nellie wasn’t too old to want a bit of kissing.

But, by golly, that Alex Roman was the wrong fellow for her! She’s be better off with someone else. Anyone else!

"You gonna stand there like a lump all day?" Charley Fugg called from the front door of the mercantile. "Or are you going to haul these barrels out to Byron’s like I told you?"

Abel jumped to work. No sense in letting moss grow. He could think while he worked, couldn’t he? Think about how Miss Nellie might not need him to drive for her anymore, if she took up with that Alex Roman. Or better yet, maybe he ought to go back to brooding over Shirley Deavers, who blew as hot and cold as a Texas springtime.

~ * ~

"Take these two pies with you, Shirley," Nellie said.

"You already paid me, Miss Nellie." The coin was burning a hole in her pocket already, but she figured she ought to squirrel it away--since who knew when the next one would come along?

"You lightened my load today," Nellie said. "Besides which, pie’s got nothing to do with payment. You carry these along to your brother and your daddy. They both look too skinny by half."

"Norman eats like a pig," Shirley said with a chuckle, "but he never seems to fill up."

Nellie reached for a loaf of bread and wrapped it up in a cloth. Keeping her voice casual--or so she thought--she said, "How’s your daddy getting on? He didn’t much enjoy the sociable, did he? No, nor my Sunday supper neither."

Shirley’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. Like that, was it? Well, her daddy had been hurt enough. He didn’t need Nellie Farmer patting him with one hand while she teased Alex Roman with the other. "Daddy’s fine. Getting itchy to move on, though."

Shirley watched the other woman’s face fall--like the first cake Shirley had stirred together this morning. "You courting with Mr. Roman?" she asked abruptly.

Nellie got all flustered--but she met the younger girl’s eyes straight. "How can you even ask that without laughing, Shirley? I’m old and fat and foolish. He’s young and handsome and fickle. We’re as unlikely a pair as raw onions and rice pudding."

"That don’t stop a heart from leaning in that direction."

Nellie did Shirley the courtesy of mulling it over, but she shook her head at last. "I just can’t picture it," she said. "Not in my mind, nor in my heart."

"There’s others who can," Shirley said.

Was there? That was something else for Nellie to mull over. "Not without laughing themselves silly," she finally muttered. She handed over the wrapped loaf. "Take this to your daddy, will you? He claims to like my bread."

Shirley was not one to guard her tongue as a rule, but this time she did. Else she might have said, "He likes more about you than your bread." Or maybe, "Marry my daddy, so we can stay put for a change." Instead, she just took the bread. "My daddy is a good carpenter," she said, just as if she was changing the subject.

"I know," Nellie said. "I hope to hire him to build me a walkway out back. Do you think he’d be willing?" The older woman’s cheeks were flushed.

"I’ll talk to him," Shirley promised with an inward grin. "I’m sure he’ll be glad of the work."

Abel appeared in the doorway.

"Here," Nellie said, relieved. "Just in time. Get the pies, Abel."

As Shirley moved toward the door, Nellie said, "You want a regular job, Shirley, I’d be glad of the help. You’re quick, and not a shirker."

Shirley smiled her thanks. "I’d like that."

"How about two more days this week?" Nellie asked quickly. "Abel can bring you into town on Thursday--and Saturday, too. Then, if you’ve a mind, you could give the Saturday night sociable another try. Stay over if you want, and come with us to church."

Shirley wanted to say yes. It was on the tip of her tongue to do it--but she couldn’t bear thinking of her daddy and Norman rattling around by themselves in that cabin all weekend. So she swallowed her first response and dredged up a different one. "Thursday would be fine, Miss Nellie. But I don’t know about Saturday."

"Abel can carry your daddy and Norman in for the sociable," Nellie offered, without even consulting Abel on his own preferences.

But Shirley was shaking her head. "Daddy’s not overfond of sociables."

"He only tried the one, honey," Nellie said. "Maybe he needs to give it another chance."

"Daddy’s not one for beating a dead horse," Shirley replied. "See you Thursday, Miss Nellie."

~ * ~

"I wish you’d come," Abel said when he’d headed the wagon out of town. "I never got to dance with you."

Shirley shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but she was glowing inside. Abel wanted to dance with her, did he? She savored that thought for a long minute, before jerking herself back to the realities of her duty to her family. "I’d have liked that," she said, but she said it soft, so maybe he didn’t hear.

With Alex gone, Nellie thought she might find herself at loose ends but she perked right up when Shirley came on Thursday, as promised, and brought Judson Deavers along with her.

"To get started on that walkway of yours," he said by way of explanation.

Nellie had no idea how much persuading Shirley had had to do to get her daddy to come, no, nor how much Jud’s palms sweated as the wagon drew them closer to town. But neither Shirley nor Judson missed how Nellie beamed when she saw him. And Abel saw it, too, though he put it down to Shirley’s appearance, since that’s how he felt every time he looked at the girl.

"Norman stayed home," Shirley told Nellie. "I told him he could help Daddy, but he said he had his own work to do." She rolled her eyes with a sister’s scorn.

"Well, that’s all right," Nellie said. "Come on in. Have you eaten breakfast?"

"Yes," Jud said at the same time Shirley said, "No."

"Well, no harm in eating it twice," Nellie said. "Which I’m known to do myself from time to time."

"We’re here to work," Jud said, his voice and manner stiff, but Nellie and Shirley both seemed to have developed themselves a hearing problem, and went about the business of stirring up a big bowl of batter for flapjacks.

"Shirley is working, Mr. Deavers," Abel pointed out. "She’s here to help Miss Nellie cook."

Jud could see he was out-numbered, so he hung his hat on the peg by the door and helped Abel set the table.

"Only four places," Nellie said in passing. "Alex has taken himself off to who knows where, and no telling how long he’ll be gone."

This appeared to be good news to Jud, for he loosened up considerably upon hearing it.

"Norman will be sorry he missed the flapjacks," Abel said when the last of the golden stack of them had disappeared.

Shirley sniffed. "Serves him right."

"And I’ve eaten so much," Jud said, after dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, "that I’m primed to take myself a nice long nap."

"I got two empty rent rooms," Nellie said promptly. "Help yourself."

"I came here to work," Jud said, his eyes twinkling. "Though you tempt me sorely, ma’am."

"That’s a woman’s job," Nellie retorted before she thought. Then her cheeks got hot. "Or so I hear," she added, "though I myself never did get the hang of it."

"That’s where you’re mistaken," Jud said. Then his own cheeks acquired a little redness. "Now, let me get a look at what you need out back, Nell, and I can start earning my keep."

Nell, Nellie thought as she led him out back. I like that. And it sure beats "Miss Farmer" any day!

It was a pleasant day all around, and Jud made a good start on the walkway, his confidence increasing in direct proportion to the amount of admiration Nellie Farmer heaped upon his head.

"This’ll be just dandy," she said when it came time for him to put his tools away for the day. "Now I won’t get rained on when I have to pass from the house to the kitchen. You’ve got clever hands, Jud."

"I’ll finish it off tomorrow," he promised.

"Well, there’s no hurry," Nellie said, thinking quickly. "How about Saturday instead? And you all can go with us to the sociable afterwards."

At the word "sociable", Jud flinched. "No, best do it tomorrow," he said. "I don’t like to leave a job half-finished."

Shirley heard the whole exchange, and though she was disappointed, she took the long view. A lot of progress had been made this fine day, and she wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

And there was always tomorrow. Maybe Daddy would soften up even more on Friday when he came to finish the covered walkway.

~ * ~

Jud finished the walkway on Friday afternoon and Nellie paid him handsomely despite his protests.

"You’ve done too much for us already," Jud said. "The cabin, the meals, Shirley’s job…"

"I didn’t know anyone was running a ledger on being neighborly," Nellie retorted. "This covered walkway is business, Judson Deavers, business pure and simple. If you won’t take my coin for it, then I’ll never be able to ask you to build me anything again. And that would be a crying shame, because I’ve half a mind to turn that lean-to out back into an extra room, and who will I get to do the work for me if you won’t let me hire you?"

"I’d gladly do it for nothing, Nell."

"Well, that would be me cheating you of an honest wage, wouldn’t it?" Nellie planted her hands on her ample hips. "And I’m not a cheat. Never have been, never will be--and you can take that to the bank, mister!"

"Yes," Jud said. "I believe I can."

"So you’ll take my money?"

"And I’ll take the work, too."

Nellie beamed. "Good. How about starting tomorrow? And then, after work, we can all go to the sociable…"

But Jud was shaking his head. "Monday," he said as he put on his hat. "I’ll start Monday, Nell. Have yourself a nice weekend."

As Abel drove Jud back out to the cabin, he, too, did his best to persuade the older man to give the weekly sociable one more try, but Jud was a stubborn as a tree stump and could not be moved.

~ * ~

Nellie’s chuckle was a little rueful when she heard about the sociable on Saturday. Abel admitted he didn’t see the point in going since Shirley wasn’t going to be there. And Nellie herself had had enough excitement to last her a good long while--without kicking up any more of it at a town function.

Brita Blum was there, though, hanging on Quinton Bentley like he was some poor calf being led to the slaughtering block, or so Cassie Loomis reported Sunday morning after services. The more determined Brita appeared to want to enjoy her status as an engaged woman, Delilah Greenly added, the more the Bentley boy seemed to feel the noose drawing tighter.

Inge had stayed home, too, Nellie learned, which must have disappointed Gene Sherman to no end. Well, Nellie thought, there’s no fool like an old fool. Maybe Gene was not a good match for Inge after all. Surely she could do better. Nellie would have to give it some thought.

Delilah said that Charley Fugg was in his usual sour mood--though he’d made a point of showing up at the sociable anyway so everyone could have a share in it.

And if looks could strike a person dead, Cassie added--even though Nellie had heard more than enough gossip by now--why, Brita Blum and Quinton Bentley both would be laid out at the feet of Junior Miller, who just found out Saturday night that Brita Blum was getting married. "He took it personal," Delilah chimed in. "Poor boy," she added with a notable lack of genuine sympathy.

It sounded to Nellie like Saturday’s sociable was not one of the more successful events in the history of Williams Trace. Glad I stayed home, Nellie thought.

~ * ~

Nellie cooked up her usual Sunday dinner--but there was no one to sit at her table and share it with her. And even she didn’t have much appetite this afternoon.

She went by the Galway house and coaxed Abel into carrying the bulk of it out to the Deavers.

"Ride out with me," Abel said. "You’re looking kind of peaked, Miss Nellie. The fresh air’ll do you good." He was afraid she was pining for the missing Alex Roman--though he’d never have said so.

"Peaked?" Nellie echoed, then forced a grin. "Why, a little wasting away can do me nothing but good."

"I’ll get the wagon hitched up and come by your place to collect you."

"I don’t know--" Nellie hedged, but Abel had already turned away as if it was settled.

In less than thirty minutes, the two of them were headed out to the Deavers place.

Funny, Nellie thought. I never used to think of the cabin as anybody’s but Bess’s and Benjamin’s.

She missed them both, and it had pained her to think of the cabin standing empty all these years. She’d gone by as few times as possible these past four years, because the sight of it had always stirred up a bad case of the dismals. But here she went again, and yes, looking forward to it, too.

Abel had a fine hum of anticipation going. He had hopes that the winds would be blowing favorable today, and that maybe, just maybe, Miss Shirley Deavers would be happy to see him.

But no one seemed to be about when they got there. It gave Abel and Nellie both an unpleasant jolt when Abel’s "Hello to the Deavers" drew no response.

"We’ll carry the food inside," Nellie said, but she didn’t wait to be helped down, and she didn’t stop to carry anything with her as an excuse either. Her only thought was to get into the cabin and see if it was as empty as it looked--to see if the Deavers had left for good, and taken their meager possessions with them.

But no. When she pushed the door open, there was the pink dress on a peg, and the box of borrowed tools, and a few other reassuring items.

"They haven’t lit off," Abel said from behind her, his relief standing out like a turkey in a chicken coop.

"Of course they didn’t," Nellie said, just as if such a thought had never occurred to her. "Jud promised me he’d start work on my lean-to tomorrow."

Then she grinned a shame-faced kind of grin, and Abel grinned back, and they turned to carry the food in and set it on the table Judson Deavers had so cleverly pegged together.

~ * ~

Jud showed up bright and early Monday morning, long before Abel had a chance to head out and pick him up.

"Never tell me you walked the whole way?" Nellie was aghast. "Why, you just come right in and sit yourself down, Judson Deavers, and have yourself a rest."

"It’s no more than six or seven miles," Jud said mildly, though it pleased him to be fussed over. "I’m used to walking, Nell, and it doesn’t harm me to do it. In fact, there’s no need for you to send Abel out for Shirley tomorrow either. She can walk into town with me."

"She’ll do no such thing! Besides which, there’s no harm that I can see in letting Shirley become better acquainted with Abel Galway." Nellie paused as if to take a breath, but it was really to check and see how this sat with Shirley’s daddy. Reassured by what she saw, she went on. "She’s a young woman, he’s a young man, and springtime in Texas is about the prettiest thing God ever created with His own two hands. And it’s not like they can meet at the town sociable, is it?" This last was said with about the same amount of sourness one might expect from somebody who’d just sucked on a lemon.

Jud couldn’t keep from grinning, but he kept his tone bland. "That’s true, Nell. You make a good point. Abel can come for Shirley in the morning--though, as for me, I expect I’ll still walk. Now I’d best get started on shoring up that lean-to. One good gust of wind would knock it into a stack of kindling."

~ * ~

Shirley opted to walk with Jud the next morning, but Abel met them halfway to town and carried them the rest of the way in.

"I’m leaving on one of my selling trips this afternoon," the young man said, "but I can drop you off on my way out of town."

"I’ll walk," Jud said, just as Shirley said, "I’d be obliged."

And so it went.

~ * ~

Nellie would never have admitted it, but she was sleeping better these days, yes, and smiling more, too. Not that I’m glad to have Alex gone, she told herself more than once, but he’s not what anyone might call restful. I’ll be happy enough to have him come back. I think.

The work on the lean-to was going quickly in Jud’s skilled hands, and Nellie was tempted to creep out at night and pluck away some of the wood and nails so as to slow the project down a little, though she chided herself for the foolishness of the thought.

Still, when the lean-to was made snug, Nellie decided it needed a bedstead and maybe a chair, and would Jud be willing to hire on for that as well?

And so she kept him at work around her place, and a few people who stopped by for some of Nellie’s cookies made his acquaintance, and saw his handiwork, and asked if he could do some work for them, too, once Miss Farmer had finished with him.

Nellie cooked meals for four or five, sending home portions for Norman, who was busy with his own unnamed business back at the cabin.

Abel and Shirley had plenty of opportunity for conversation, and Nellie, who believed she’d planned the whole thing, didn’t notice how much conversation she herself was passing with Shirley’s daddy along the way. She only knew she was sleeping like a baby at night, and waking up with a smile every bright and beautiful morning.

And she couldn’t help but notice that Jud’s face was filling out a little, and the shadows in his eyes were disappearing. Work will do that for a man, Nellie thought complacently. Yes, and for a woman, too.

Still, Jud hadn’t yet agreed to attend another sociable, and Shirley stayed away from them, too, despite Nellie’s repeated offers of hospitality.

And so two weeks passed, then three, and still no sign of Alex Roman.

Nellie had just cut herself a wedge of pie for supper when there was a knock on her door.

It was already coming on to dark--well past the hour when folks would stop in to buy a dozen cookies or a loaf of bread, besides which, this being Sunday, nobody in Williams Trace would be coming to buy in the first place.

She opened the door to the sheriff and his wife. After a moment’s surprise, she said, "Come on in, Milt, Eunice." As a rule, they weren’t ones to come socializing this time of the day. "What brings you here?" Without waiting for an answer, she gestured to the pie on the table. "I was just about to have a bite. Can I cut you both a slice?"

Eunice was already shaking her head in refusal, but Milt was never one to pass up a sweet--even if his wife tried to sour his appetite with her disapproval every chance she got.

"That would be dandy, Nellie. Here, Eunice." He pulled a chair out for his wife, who glared at him even as she plopped down.

Nellie cut two pieces. Eunice wouldn’t eat hers, just to prove a point, but Milt would switch the plates when he was done with his, and thank her for the both of them.

"We’re here on business," Eunice said as her husband forked up his first bite. "Milton!" She elbowed the sheriff, but he didn’t let it interfere with his enjoyment of the pie. He took his time chewing, and stretched out a wide smile when he’d swallowed.

"Nobody bakes a pie like you, Nellie."

Eunice stiffened. He’d pay for that one later, if looks were anything to go by. For hadn’t Eunice baked a pie herself and served it after Sunday dinner this very afternoon?

Nellie could never figure out how these two had ended up together. Eunice was always harping at Milt, disapproval emanating from her like full sun on a summer’s day. She couldn’t bear for him to play his banjo, she didn’t care for his line of work, and she was absolutely vitriolic when it came to his occasional trips to Six Gun Hollow.

Though Nellie, for one, couldn’t fault him for leaving town every now and again. And if he did visit the bawdy house in Six Gun Hollow, like was rumored, well, who was she to blame him? Hadn’t Eunice Caldwell brought it on herself with her criticisms? She was about as warm and welcoming as a prickly pear in an outhouse--and it stretched even the most fertile of imaginations to put her under the sheets with affable Milt Caldwell.

Eunice hadn’t always been this bad, Nellie remembered. Yes, she’d always been short of humor and cheer, but it wasn’t until after the death of their son, Timmy, three years back, that Eunice had shriveled up like a strip of jerked beef--and Milt had stepped up his side trips to Six Gun Hollow.

Nellie chewed on this for a minute or two as Milt savored a few more bites of pie. I ought not to be so critical, Nellie thought. There’s always a reason behind every bit of foolish or scandalous behavior.

"So what kind of business are you about this fine spring evening?" she asked at last.

"I don’t know as I’d call it business," Milt drawled. He was already eyeing Eunice’s slab of pie. Just to be perverse, his wife took a bite of it after all. "We just came to see what you’d heard about Doc Applegate."

Nellie shook her head, her exasperation plain. "I told you before, Milt. I don’t know a thing about Carl’s whereabouts. No, nor when he’s coming back--or if."

"See?" the sheriff said to his wife.

Eunice sniffed. "That’s nonsense, Nellie. You know everybody’s business."

I know why you never had more than the one child, Nellie thought, her charity slipping a few notches. It’s because your own husband didn’t care to go back for a second taste when the first one was so sour, you old vinegar puss!

"I’m sorry to disappoint you, Eunice," she said aloud when she’d corralled her tongue, "but the only thing I can tell you about Carlisle Applegate is that he’s gone. Now, if you’re asking my opinion, you know I’m more than happy to serve that out with my pie. Would you care for another piece, Milt?" She slid the last of the pie onto his plate. "Now, as I was saying, my opinion is that it couldn’t hurt to find a new doctor. My opinion is that, while Carl Applegate is off doing whatever it is he’s doing, we need ourselves a doctor closer by than that leech over in Peach Creek. And my opinion is that we should let Verna Louise handle it--like she’s done every time the town needs a schoolteacher."

Nellie saw Eunice wince, though Milt was grinning around his mouthful of pie.

Verna Louise Galway’s luck with schoolteachers was bad. The town had hired upwards of twelve of them in the past four years, and every last one of them had hared off within a few months’ time, for one reason or another.

If Verna Louise was commissioned with luring a new doctor to Williams Trace, chances were that if Carl Applegate ever did come back, there’d still be a place for him, because the folks of Williams Trace were likely to have gone through several replacements in the meantime.

"I figured as much," Milt said, and ate the last bite of his second piece of pie.

Eunice, meanwhile, was looking around the room. "I must say, Nellie, it’s a good thing that young man you had staying here is finally gone. He was bound to cause trouble sooner or later, by the looks of him, not to mention the impropriety of you keeping him here like he was some kind of family member."

"There was no harm in Alex Roman," Nellie said, her voice mild. "He minded his own business, and was good company besides."

"A good dancer, too, huh, Nellie?" Milt had a gleam in his eye. Full of pie and good humor, he was set to tease her.

"I didn’t know you’d taken a turn with him, Milt," Nellie said sweetly.

Milt chuckled, but if anything, Eunice got stiffer. "He ain’t my type," Milt said. "Too young. And I make it a rule never to dance with the ones with hair on their chests."

"Do you check that personally," Nellie asked, "or go by word of mouth?" She sneaked a look at Eunice, who had gone just about purple.

"Checking’s part of the fun," Milt said.

"Depends on what you call fun." Nellie turned at the sound of footsteps on her porch. "Now who might that be?" She’d gotten up and was halfway across the room when Alex Roman swung the door open just as if he belonged here, a tapestry bag in his hand.

"Hey, Nellie, I’m back."

"So I see." Nellie folded her arms to keep herself from hugging him, then peered past him to the cloaked figure hesitating at the doorway. "You must be Alex’s mama," she said. "Well, don’t just stand there, Alex. Bring her on in."

Alex reached back and drew his mother forward. "This is Nellie Farmer, Mama. Nellie, Lillian Bu--" His eyes shifted to the sheriff and his wife, and he caught himself in time. "Uh, Roman."

Nellie reached out her hand to Alex’s mother. Lillian extended hers, dropping her hood back as she did.

She was soft and womanly, with dark curls clustering around her round face. Her eyes were wary, but her smile came ready enough. "Miss Farmer, Alex has told me of your many kindnesses."

Whatever Nellie had been expecting of Alex Roman’s badly-wronged mama, it wasn’t this soft-spoken, soft-shaped woman.

But what happened next was even more unexpected.

Lillian Roman seemed to notice there were others in the room, and turned politely. The color promptly left her face, she staggered as if shot, and ruddy Milt Caldwell said "Lily!" in a strangled voice.

"Mama?" Alex put his arm around his mother. "Are you sick?"

Eunice, meanwhile, had turned her sharp eyes on Milt. "You know this woman, Milton?"

The sheriff mumbled something that sounded like, "My mistake," and practically dragged his wife out of the room without any of the standard courtesies of departure.

The slam of the front door sounded unusually loud.

"Well," Nellie said, "what in the world was that all about? If you don’t mind my asking--and, come to think of it, even if you do."

Lillian ignored her, clutching at Alex’s arm like she thought she might fall. "This won’t work, Alex. Take me back."

"I’m not taking you back."

"Back where?" Nellie asked.

"I didn’t know--" the other woman said to her son. "He never said--is he the sheriff?" she asked faintly.

Alex’s mouth was grim. He nodded. "What aren’t you telling me, Mama?"

"Here," Nellie said, "sit down and have some tea, Miz But--er--Roman, and tell us what’s got you so rattled."

Lillian’s look at Nellie was dubious, but Alex pulled out a chair for her. "You can trust Nellie, Mama. She can keep a secret."

It gave Nellie a glow of satisfaction warmer than anything else anyone had ever said about her. Imagine that! Alex trusted her to keep her mouth shut. And even without the compliment, she was gladder than she could say to have that rascal back here.

Nellie poured the other woman a cup of tea, then sat down next to her. "You’re saying you’ve met our sheriff?"

Lillian looked at Nellie with a pair of eyes remarkably like her son’s--only these were full of pain. "I didn’t know he was the sheriff. I didn’t know he was from Williams Trace. I--"

"Are you saying you met up with Milt Caldwell in Six Gun Hollow?" Alex’s voice practically squeaked. "At the--the house?"

Nellie’s ears perked up.

"I didn’t know much about him," Lillian admitted. "But he’s been to--to see me dozens of times over the past three years. Always asked for me, too, though that never stopped Prosper Sterling from offering him one of the younger girls instead."

When Nellie realized her jaw was hanging open, she closed her mouth with a snap. Was Alex’s mama saying what Nellie thought she was saying? Was Alex’s mama a former employee of that infamous bawdy house over at Six Gun Hollow? And, most interesting of all, was she the reason Milt Caldwell seemed to have regular business over in that neck of the woods?

"Take me back, Alex," Lillian said. "I can’t make a life for myself here--not with Milt knowing what I am."

"Hold your horses, Lil," Nellie said. "Here, have a sip of this chamomile tea. I’m sorry there’s no pie, but I’ll be baking again tomorrow and you can give it a try then. Now you just listen for a minute. You think our fine sheriff is going to share out any of that information with the folks in town--that he’s--er--intimately acquainted with one of that kind of girl? Er, woman? Meaning no offense, of course, but you’d be a goose not to know what folks think about such places. Anyway, what would word of that do to his reputation around here? If Eunice didn’t take a carving knife to his privates and feed ‘em to him in a stew, why, the rest of the townsfolk would be riding him out of town on a rail, with maybe some tar and feathers stuck on for decoration. He’s got no call to say a word about you--and a whole lot of good reasons not to."

Lillian sipped her tea, the color returning to her cheeks. "You’re right, Nellie. May I call you Nellie?" At Nellie’s nod, she went on. "He’s got more to lose than I have." She paused, bit at her lip, and there was a forlorn look in her eyes. "He carries a sadness around with him underneath those perpetual smiles. I--liked him."

"And he must have liked you," Nellie said, "going back as he did to--er--see you as many times as he did. If we could just think of a way to get rid of Eunice, why, you could have your cake and eat it too!"

Lillian’s cheeks pinked. "I’ve had more than enough cake," she said. "Enough to last me a lifetime."

~ * ~

It was coming on to midnight by the time Nellie showed the other woman the second rent room. "You need anything, Lillian," she said from the doorway as Alex carried her tapestry bag in and set it next to the bed, "you just sing out. We’re not fancy, and there’s no need to stand on ceremony."

Lillian murmured thanks, pulled her son’s head down to plant a kiss on his cheek, then shooed them both out.

Alex closed the door behind him and crossed to where Nellie was straightening the chairs.

"Your mama’s a sweet lady," Nellie said. "Things’ll work out just fine."

"You’re not mad I didn’t tell you she was a--a--" For one not given to mincing words, Alex couldn’t seem to get the word out.

"A working woman?" Nellie asked. "Was it any of my business?"

"Has that ever stopped you before?"

Nellie grinned. "Not even slowed me down, now that you mention it. But she had a hard row to hoe, your daddy running out on her like that, leaving her with a handful like you to raise alone. Did you grow up in a--?" Now Nellie was the one mincing words.

"A whore house?" Alex said bluntly. "Mama farmed me out as much as she could from the time I was ten. There was always some do-gooder ready to take me in for whatever money Mama could scrape together to pay ‘em with--but I was always happier with the ladies." He flashed a grin that spoke of fond memories, but the grin didn’t last. "Mama tried to find other work those first years, but it finally came down to the bawdy house or starve." Now there was a bitter twist to his lips. "I think she’d have chosen to starve if it hadn’t been for me."

"You can’t blame yourself for your mama’s choices," Nellie said. "She did what she felt she had to. If you want to blame anyone, heap it on the old dead head of John Butterwick."

"I wish I could kill him all over again."

"Well, you probably aren’t the only one to wish that, but let it go for now. The thing is, Alex, it’s not my place to pass judgement, no, nor yours. But let’s just do what we can to make sure her choices are easier from now on. I expect Mr. Merriweather to turn up one day soon, and then we’ll all just head over to the sheriff and--" Nellie’s flow of words dried up for just a second, but then she got the pump handle working again. "That might be a little touchy, but never mind, honey. It’ll all come out right. Not to worry." She pulled his head down to kiss his cheek, just like his mother had, but Alex turned at the last minute so the kiss landed on his mouth instead.

Nellie let go of him as quick as if she’d been burned, but Alex was laughing at her, his eyes twinkling.

"I’ll get a peek at those underdrawers yet."

"On wash day, maybe," Nellie said. "Now get yourself to bed. It’s late, and I’m tired."

Alex turned, the very picture of compliance, then paused and looked back at Nellie, his mood changing like quicksilver, from teasing to intense. His eyes were serious in the light of the lamp, and his voice soft. "Thank you, Nellie."

Her face got red again, but she shooed off his thanks and scurried to her room without even blowing out the lamp.

If Nellie hadn’t known it for herself straight from the horse’s mouth, she’d never have been able to guess at Lillian Roman’s checkered past. The woman was mannerly, soft-spoken, hard-working, and so modest she wouldn’t even unpin her hair unless the door to her room was shut tight.

There’d be no need to flinch come church on Sunday. This lady knew her Bible backwards and forwards. "Though I tend to dwell on the forgiving parts of the gospels," she admitted, "rather than on the vengeance portions."

"Vengeance can be wearing," Nellie agreed.

Oh, how Nellie longed to pepper Lillian with questions about her previous position! Though "position", she thought, getting hot in the face, wasn’t exactly the best word to call to mind on the subject, was it? Like any woman who’d spent a lifetime stuck on the straight and narrow, she had a morbid fascination for details of what the wandering ones did, and how they lived, and what they did for fun since the ultimate pleasures were all in a day’s--or night’s--work.

But she bit her tongue. In fact, she kept the reins on it so taut she thought it might actually curl up into the back of her throat and choke her to death. For hadn’t Alex said he trusted her? And wasn’t part of that trust not prying into the things that harsh circumstances had forced Lillian Roman to endure for the sake of her only child?

But how, Nellie couldn’t help wondering, did a fancy piece keep from enduring an endless string of unwanted pregnancies?

And what did one wear to work--or were clothes not needful? And speaking of being naked, how did a woman bear stripping down in front of a perfect stranger? No, not perfect, Nellie reminded herself, else he wouldn’t be paying for the intimate services of a desperate woman, would he?

It was torture--but she endured it. Being trusted to be discreet was downright intoxicating--far better than a whole table full of pies and Nellie Farmer with the only fork.

~ * ~

It was late. Johnwick’s Pride had settled for the night, Ursula flouncing off to her room to sulk, while Persephone and Chauncy argued bitterly over the dregs of bad coffee and ill-temper brought on by living beyond their meager means.

"How can we have the need to be scrimping," Persephone snapped, "with a place like this to call our own? I say we sell off a parcel of it--or some of the slaves--"

"There aren’t enough to run the place as it is," Chauncy retorted. "Besides which this whole thing was your blamed idea, woman, so quit your sniveling!"

Quinton crept upstairs, his feet dragging slower with every step he took. He sneaked a look up and down the hall, then slipped into his room and latched the door.

"I don’t think this is a good idea, Brita," he whispered.

Brita emerged from the window seat, her hair already loosed down her back. "You don’t?" She crossed to him and reached for the buttons of his shirt. "You will, though. Any minute now."

She was skimming the shirt off his shoulders as she spoke. "We’ve hardly had a minute to ourselves. Besides which, no one will know. I’ll be gone before morning--leaving you with dreams to carry you through until the sun goes down again."

Quinton struggled against his natural inclinations. "This whole wedding thing," he managed. "I’m not sure it’s a good idea."

"You’re just shy," Brita said. She was already at work on the buttons of his pants as her lips pressed against his bared chest and throat. "Can’t like to think of standing up in front of the whole town--but you’ll be fine, Quinton. You’re in good hands."

She followed this up with a literal interpretation, and Quinton just about yelped.

And he forgot to tell her it wasn’t the wedding he was rethinking, but the marriage itself.

~ * ~

"What’s got you so down in the mouth this afternoon, Miss Inge?" Gene Sherman had stopped in to pick up his Sunday shirt--though it was only the middle of the week. And, if Inge had taken the time to notice, he’d trimmed his graying whiskers and pomaded his thinning hair back as well.

"What?" Inge looked up from the flat iron she was using to smooth out the wrinkles of Daniel Loomis’s shirt. "Oh, Mr. Sherman. I didn’t hear you come in. I was--was thinking of something else."

"Nothing too cheery, by the looks of you."

She mustered a smile, but it wasn’t her best effort. Brita had been out again for most of the night, coming in just before sunup smelling musky, the skin of her neck marked with love bruises, and a complacent gleam in her eyes.

Inge hadn’t said anything to her, had pretended to be asleep when what she’d truly longed to do was leap up and shake her little sister until the very teeth rattled right out of Brita’s head. "What are you doing?" she’d wanted to shriek. "How can you be so stupid? What’s to keep Quinton Bentley from refusing to marry you now that you’re giving him what only a bride should offer?"

But what was the use?

Brita had made her bed--figuratively speaking, of course, because her actual cot was still in use--and now she was going to have to lie on it, lumps and all.

"Anything I can do to help, Miss Inge?"

"What?" Inge said for the second time. She tried to focus on Mr. Sherman’s face, but she was bone-weary. Still, his voice was kind.

"Can I help?" he repeated.

Inge half-shrugged. "I think not, but I’m beholden to you for the offer."

Gene fumbled with the hat in his hands, worrying it like some kind of gray-muzzled hound dog, then he cleared his throat. "Would you like to come for a ride with me this evening, Miss Inge? You know, catch some fresh air, blow the cobwebs out? It promises to be a fine night--maybe one of our last with the heat of summer just around the corner." He shifted from one foot to the other, not quite meeting her eyes.

Oh mercy, what now? Inge thought. A few dances and now he means to come courting! The man was old enough to be her father--maybe even twice over, if he’d been a precocious youth--and now he wanted to take her for a drive?

She switched irons and pressed at another wrinkle, her mind whirling. Still, he was a kind man. And mature--not like the callow boys who followed Brita around like panting puppies wanting to hump on her with no idea the meaning, or the cost.

And she was so tired of being the grownup here. Let someone else step in for awhile. What harm could it do?

"That would be--nice, Mr. Sherman," she said at last. "I’d like that."

Gene’s face lit up. Here it’d taken him weeks to screw up the courage to ask, and Miss Inge was already saying yes without any extra coaxing on his part! He settled his hat on his head and looked her in the eye. His color was up--but so was his confidence. "I’ll be by right after supper, then. Six o’clock, while there’s still some light to see by."

"I’ll be ready," Inge said. "Thank you, Mr. Sherman."

"Thank you, Miss Inge." He smiled at her, then turned to go, bumping into a basket of ironing, but catching at it before it spilled. "‘scuse me," he said, though whether it was to the basket or to Inge, she couldn’t say. Then he was out the door and humming.

"He’s old," Brita said from the doorway. "You could do better."

"He’s kind," Inge retorted, not looking at her sister. "And who are you to talk about doing better? What do you know about it?"

"I know how to get what I want," Brita said. "And how to keep it."

Inge bent back over the shirt, ironing it with more strength than was necessary--especially in light of the fact that the iron had gone stone cold.

~ * ~

"I know you promised Merriweather a room when he got here," Alex said, "so we’ll give him mine and I’ll bunk down with you."

Nellie’s attention shot up from the piecrust she was crimping, her eyes wide, until she saw that he was teasing her. She shook her head. "You’re a rascal, Alex Roman. No two ways about it."

"I wouldn’t have it any other way."

Nellie sniffed. "That makes one of us. No, what we’ll do is put you out in the lean-to."

"Why can’t Merriweather take the lean-to?" Alex snatched a piece of piecrust.

"Mr. Merriweather is a gentleman," Nellie said, swatting at him, "and a guest."

"What am I, then?" Alex complained "A house cat?"

"By now," Nellie said, "you’re practically family. Besides which, the lean-to got fixed up into a regular room while you were gone. Jud did it--and did it so nice it almost puts the regular rooms to shame, except that it’s off by itself and not attached, so I expect it’ll be chilly come fall. Mr. Merriweather won’t be feeling well when he arrives, so he’ll need a little coddling to get him back on his feet."

"I could use a little coddling," Alex suggested, sidling forward.

"That’s what your mama is here for."

"She’s at the mercantile, sweet-talking Charley Fugg."

"He can use a lot of sweet-talking," Nellie said. "He’s as sour as his own pickle barrel. She’d do better sweet-talking Gene Sherman. At least he bathes regular."

"Know that for a fact, do you?"

"The nose knows," Nellie said with a grin.

~ * ~

Miz Roman was as sweet a lady as Charley Fugg had ever clapped eyes on. Sure, she was older than his preference--but he had to face facts. He couldn’t draw the young ones like he used to. It pained him to admit it--that maybe that old cow Nellie Farmer was right--but facts was facts.

Why, the way Miz Roman was smiling at him was a dead giveaway. The woman had taken a shine to him. No doubt about it.

Charley Fugg preened.

"Charley, give me a pennyworth of your peppermints, will you?"

Lillian didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to. Hadn’t she heard it whispering pointless promises in her ear any number of times these past three years? Hadn’t she heard it husky with purloined passion, and as replete with satisfaction as a cat with a belly full of cream?

They’d shared more than sweat and heat and kisses over the years--but the one thing they’d never bothered with was truth.

"You met up with Miz Roman here yet, Milt?" Charley asked as he slipped the candy into a little poke of paper.

Lillian took a deep breath before she turned. When she saw his face, she couldn’t help but feel a little stab of regret. But there was satisfaction, too, because she could see he was feeling it, too. "Sheriff," she said with a careful nod.

"Miz--Roman, is it?" Caldwell said. "Will you--be in town long?"

Lillian lifted her chin. "I hope to make my home here," she said clearly, "should all things work out as planned. My son speaks highly of the town."

She could see Milt flinch, though to the uninitiated it would look like no more than the flicker of an eyelash.

"Hope it works out for you," the sheriff said, then turned and blundered his way out of Fugg’s store without remembering to take his candy.

"Thank you, Mr. Fugg," Lillian said quietly. She took her own wrapped parcel from the counter top. "You’ve been most helpful."

Durn that Milt Caldwell, Charley fumed as Miz Roman left. He’d scared her off, drat him--and just when ol’ Charley was making headway.

~ * ~

Jud had finished up every little project Nellie could come up with, but now the Galways had him working on the new roof of the church, so he still stopped in at Nellie’s at the end of each workday. She fed him cake or pie or bread, urged him to accept a ride home--which he always refused--and generally fussed over him in a way that he liked very much.

Even the return of that bounder Alex Roman hadn’t dampened Jud’s spirits, for it wasn’t like the fellow hung around Nellie’s place. In fact, Jud had yet to clap eyes on him. And that suited the older man just fine.

~ * ~

Cecil Merriweather arrived on the stage on Thursday afternoon. He looked a little pale around the edges, according to Charley Fugg, and appeared to be chewing on a mouthful of weeds, but the fellow got over to Nellie Farmer’s place under his own steam. Charley had seen a lot of entertainment over the years watching folks climb down from the stage--from missteps into piles of horse plops, to tripping over the bottom step and landing face first in the dust. This dapper little fellow had looked promising for some comedy, but he navigated his way without mishap, leaving Charley Fugg with nothing to liven up the afternoon.

~ * ~

Merriweather was greeted at Nellie’s place with herb tea and a slice of toasted bread.

"This’ll have you feeling right as rain in no time," Nellie assured him. "And welcome to you, Mr. Merriweather."

"I found chewing on the mint leaves to be most beneficial," the lawyer said. "Thank you for the suggestion, Miss Farmer."

"Nellie," she said. "We don’t stand on ceremony here, Mr. Merriweather."

"Then you must call me Cecil," he said. "Where is my client?"

"He’s out and about," Nellie replied, "but he’ll be back in time for supper. Would you like to go and lay yourself down for awhile? Maybe rest up a bit? I expect we’ll be having ourselves plenty of excitement this evening, should you think to make your move tonight."

Merriweather nodded. He didn’t appear to want to look too eager at the thought, but it was obvious that a nap was what he wished for more than anything at this moment.

So Nellie got him settled in the rent room with the most comfortable bed, Alex having already grudgingly moved himself out to the lean-to, and pulled the door shut on her way out.

She’d already put chicken on to stew, and a row of fresh bread loaves that Shirley had helped bake sat on the table cooling. And there was pie for after. This looked to be a fine celebration supper--maybe the Romans’ last under her roof, should the sheriff act tonight to boot those squatting Bentleys off Butterwick land.

Things are working out just the way they ought, Nellie thought, her smile complacent. And I think I’ll put my own two feet up for a minute or two, since things have gone quiet. She headed for her chair and had just lowered herself onto the seat cushion with a sigh when Abel slammed through the front door, his eyes wild.

"Shh," Nellie said. "We got a guest, Abel. You get Shirley home all right?"

"Norman’s hurt," Abel said. "He got scratched up by some kind of bobcat he was trying to keep as a house pet. Shirley and me, we brought him back in the wagon. You got to help him!"

"Calm down," Nellie ordered. "Tell me slow."

Abel took a deep breath, then exhaled it in a wavery stream. "His arm is tore, Miss Nellie. He’s lost a lot of blood. We wrapped it, Shirley and me, and loaded him up in the wagon. If only Doc Applegate was here!" He had to stop to take another breath. "So we brought him to you instead."

Nellie was already on her feet. "There’s a bottle of whiskey in the box over there," she said. "Get it."

"Whiskey?" Abel echoed. He wasn’t the minister’s son for nothing.

"He’ll be hurting," Nellie said. "It’ll dull the pain some." She took a quick look around, thinking, It’ll have to be my room; the rest are occupied. "Let’s bring him on in."

"Shirley’s sitting with him," Abel said. "There’s a lot of blood, Miss Nellie."

"What was the boy thinking of trying to keep a bobcat in the house?" Nellie muttered. "I credited him with more sense than that."

"You know how he’s crazy for animals, Miss Nellie. He can think straight on just about everything else--but not animals." Abel was a little calmer now.

"You got that right, honey." She was proud of Abel, fiercely proud of his quick thinking. I’ve known him since he was a boy, so sometimes I forget--but Abel Galway is not a boy anymore.

"I’ll have to stitch him where the skin’s tore," Nellie said. "It’ll hurt. I’m going to have to count on you to hold him still for me, Abel."

Abel nodded, his mouth grim.

The wagon bed looked like the aftermath of a birthing gone bad, with blood spattered everywhere. Norman lay white-faced and moaning; the pieces of Shirley’s pink dress wrapped around his arm were already soaked through with blood.

Shirley’s face was pale, too, but she held Norman’s unhurt arm and talked to him in a calm voice, even though the eyes she turned on Nellie were just short of frantic.

"We’ll need help getting him inside," Nellie said.

"I can carry him." Abel was already reaching for the boy and lifting him. It was awkward; Norman was long and lanky, but Abel hardly broke a sweat.

"Carry him on in to my room," Nellie said. Shirley darted ahead and yanked back the coverlet on Nellie’s bed then, looking around, spied some flour sacking Nellie used for toweling. She spread that out quickly just before Abel set Norman down.

"Abel," Nellie said, "I’m going to need your help. Shirley, we need some hot water, honey, from the pot in the kitchen."

"I know where it is," Shirley said and hurried out for it, passing Cecil Merriweather, who had just now appeared at the door of Nellie’s bedroom.

"Miss Farmer," the lawyer began, but Nellie didn’t even look up.

"Miss Farmer," the lawyer said again. He took a step into the room and caught sight of Norman writhing in a world of pain. "Good heavens!" Merriweather stepped back, his already pale face bleaching to a sickly white. He turned to beat a hasty retreat.

"Mr. Merriweather," Nellie said without looking up from the blood-soaked wrappings on Norman’s arm, "this boy’s daddy is over to the church. Go get Judson Deavers."

"Yes, indeed," the lawyer said. "Oh, my goodness! I certainly will!"

~ * ~

Jud came at a dead run and Nellie was never so glad to see someone in her life as she was him. "Jud, I’m going to have to stitch him. I need you to be right here in his face whilst Abel holds him still."

Jud moved around to the other side of the bed as Shirley came back lugging a kettle of hot water.

Nellie unwrapped the silk from Norman’s arm, expecting it to be bad--but even expecting it to be bad, she almost flinched. The skin hung in strips, one of the tears so deep she almost thought she might find the underlying muscle laid bare. She anticipated Norman’s resistance, but after one scream that rivaled that of his faithless bobcat, he slumped into a faint.

"Thank the Lord for that," Nellie muttered. She took a steadying breath herself. "I’m not the fanciest seamstress in the world, but I can mend the rends." Though it would take a lot of work and even then there’d be no guarantee that the flesh wouldn’t putrify anyway.

She’d never been madder at a man in her life than she was at Carlisle Applegate at this moment. How dared he skip off and leave Williams Trace without a doctor!

She was liberal with the whiskey, splashing it on the needle and thread and using it in the wound itself.

"He’ll be dead drunk," Jud said in a husky attempt at humor. And he winced. Somehow, using the word "dead" at this moment seemed like tempting fate.

Beads of sweat popped out on Nellie’s face, but she kept her fingers moving steady, the needle pushing through the shredded skin and snugging it back together.

"My Grandma Dayton tried to teach me quilting," she said at one point. "I wish I’d paid more attention."

Shirley’s face was white, but as set as if carved from marble. She seemed to know just what Nellie would need next, and kept the threaded needles coming. Abel was no less stoic, for all his earlier panic, and Nellie was as pleased and proud of him as if she’d born him herself. As for Judson, well, his hands were steady and his face still, though he did look up just once right into Nellie’s eyes in such a way that she felt like she could peer right into the soul of him.

"He’ll need rest," Nellie said when the last stitch had been made. She dabbed the blood with the last of the whiskey, then gently smeared a salve over the raw places before binding Norman’s arm up with what looked like a chunk of his father’s shirt. She looked at Jud without flinching. "He’ll take a fever--which’ll help keep the festering down--but if the fever gets too high, he’ll need help in bringing it down. I’ll make him as comfortable as I can, Jud."

"You’ve done too much," Jud began, but Shirley whirled on him, her eyes fierce.

"We’re keeping Norman right here, Daddy! I don’t care how much you mislike staying in town. If Miss Nellie can keep him comfortable here, then we’re all staying here. And if she says we got to strip naked and roll ourselves down Main Street to help him, then we’ll strip ourselves naked and commence to rolling."

"That likely won’t be necessary," Nellie interjected.

Shirley was crying now, the tears coming so hard and fast it was like her whole face was melting. "We’ve done this your way for two years, Daddy--but it’s time to face up to it. We need other people sometimes--even if some of them end up giving us pain." She turned and started to gather up the bloody strips of pink silk, and Abel moved to her, his hand coming to rest for just a moment in a comforting weight on her shoulder.

"It’s best not to move your son yet," Nellie said.

"You’ve done too much already--" Judson said again, but it sounded weak even in his own ears.

"You can never do too much at a time like this," Nellie said. "Now, I don’t know your story, but I know we’d best get Norman as comfortable as we can while he’s still passed out. Everything’s likely to hurt." She reached out with one blood-crusted hand and gripped Judson’s arm. "We’ll watch over Norman together, Jud."

He nodded once, covered her hand briefly with his, then turned to pull off his son’s well-worn shoes.

~ * ~

"Thank you, Abel." Shirley, in the front room, could feel herself swaying toward him, and tried to pull back, but it was as natural as could be for him to reach out and encircle her with his arm, and for her to rest her cheek against his heart, just so.

"He’ll be fine, Shirley," Abel said, with more hope than conviction in his voice. Now was not the time, of course, but he loved the feel of this girl in his arms. It was just like she belonged there. His arm tightened a little, and Shirley obliged by moving even closer, her eyelids drooping for just a moment.

Abel was strong and steady, and it was peace to her jangled nerves to lean against him this way, to draw comfort from the solid length of his body.

~ * ~

Well, it’ll be a full house tonight, Nellie thought, already mentally rearranging her guests. And thank the good Lord for that lean-to! If that wasn’t pure inspiration, I don’t know what is. Shirley could double up with Lily Roman. Alex would be plenty comfortable in the lean-to. Cecil Merriweather would be fine where he was, unless the scent of blood in the house made him squeamish. And Norman could just stay put in Nellie’s own bed. There was space enough for Jud to stretch out next to him. And I’ll just keep to the chair at bedside, in case I’m needed. That settled, she took a quick inventory in her mind of food and staples, then linens, and lastly, whiskey. She’d keep cleaning Norman’s arm with it, like Carl had showed her once upon a time, and if she ran out, she knew she could go wrestle some more from Gene Sherman--or, better yet, send the minister to do it for her.

Gene Sherman ought not to be nipping at his bottle on the quiet anyhow, Nellie thought righteously.

"I’ll need more hot water, Shirley."

Careful as Jud had been, pulling off Norman’s threadbare stockings had jostled the wound. Nellie saw fresh blood seeping through the makeshift bandage. Obviously, one of her fine seams had popped and was going to need restitching--If I can, Nellie thought grimly, as shredded as the skin is. "Abel, get yourself over to Mr. Sherman’s and talk him out of a bottle of whiskey. If he balks, threaten him with a visit from your daddy. Better yet, your mama."

Abel mustered a smile, gave Shirley’s arm a reassuring squeeze, and was out the door.

"Let’s us finish getting him undressed," Nellie said. "Or at least peel his pants off him." His shirt was already mostly gone, thanks to the bobcat’s claws and the aftermath, but they peeled away what remained, and Nellie briskly sponged him down with water from the ewer.

Norman moaned and thrashed, which produced more moaning, but his eyes stayed shut, as if by doing so he could keep from seeing the results of his own foolishness.

It wasn’t too long before Abel was back with a dusty bottle of whiskey. "Mr. Sherman wasn’t to home," he said, "but I knew he wouldn’t mind making a contribution. We can sort it out with him later."

"Good work, Abel," Nellie said. "We’ll make a sinner of you yet."

Nellie unwrapped the wound and restitched the small area that had come apart, then flavored everything with Gene Sherman’s whiskey, followed by more salve. When that was done, she wrapped it up with fresh bandages. "If Carl were here," Nellie muttered, "he’d likely dose him with laudanum." Well, the doctor hadn’t taken his bag with him, had he? Maybe she’d just go rummage through his supplies and make her best guess as to what they’d need to see to Norman’s comfort.

"I’ll be right back," she said aloud. "I’m going to find him something to ease the pain."

She’d long relied on willow bark tea herself for the relieving of pain, but Norman looked like he was going to need something a tad stronger.

The abandoned Applegate place was dark and quiet, with a forlorn air about it. Nellie let herself in and lit a lamp against the approaching gloom of dusk, then began to help herself to Carl’s neatly arranged supplies. They had bandages aplenty, and the stitching had been done with one of Grandma Dayton’s quilting needles, but this dark bottle was half full of laudanum, and Nellie also took grim note of the location of Applegate’s bone saw--just in case.

Then she blew out the lamp and left, pulling the door shut behind her.

"What’s going on?" Alex demanded when she got back to her place. "You’re covered with blood, Nellie. Are you hurt? And why is your room full of company?" He grinned. "You never threw a party in there for me."

Nellie barely acknowledged him as she brushed past, catching up a glass on her way back to Norman’s bedside. With water from the ewer, she made her best guess as to the right dose of laudanum, and with Jud’s help, got it mostly in, though Norman sputtered and wailed at the taste. Still, it worked pretty fast, settling him down to an uneasy rest.

And when it did, a collective sigh seems to ripple through the room.

"I’ll wash up and get supper dished up," Nellie said. "You won’t feel hungry, but you’ll need to eat anyway."

Jud and Shirley both hovered by the bed, and Abel had affixed himself to Shirley’s side. None of them were paying Nellie much mind, but she was right, and she’d see they had some hot food in their stomachs.

"What’s all this about?" Alex asked. He followed her to the pump out back, then back inside when she’d done washing. "Cecil came and got me, hardly talking sense. It took me a good ten minutes to get the man calmed down."

"Norman Deavers got himself clawed by a bobcat," Nellie said as she gave the stew a stir. It hadn’t scorched, thank goodness. "And since we haven’t got ourselves a doctor at present, I’m taking care of him."

Alex pouted. "You never invited me into your bedroom to take care of me, Nellie. I call that unfair."

That smile of his that usually gave her heart a little jolt had no effect this evening. Nellie was already as tired as she’d ever been in her life--and it was going to be a long night. No time for Alex’s foolishness. "Get out from underfoot, will you? I got to get supper dished up."

"Cecil and me, we mean to head over to see the sheriff after supper, and maybe by tomorrow morning, I can carry my mama out to Johnwick’s Pride." Alex made a face. "There’ll be a lot of changes out there, the first of which will be the name."

"Good luck with the sheriff," Nellie said, though her mind was obviously elsewhere.

"You don’t mean to go with me?" The pout on Alex’s face got bigger, though the twinkle was still in his eye. "I was counting on you to cheer me on."

He was counting on her, was he? "If I wasn’t weary to the bone," Nellie said, "I’d take that as a compliment, Alex. But I got a boy in there who got on the wrong side of a bobcat’s temper, and no doctor in town to look in on him. Any other day, you’d have to tie me to the bedpost to keep me from going with you--but I got my hands full tonight."

"Tying you to the bedpost sounds like fun," Alex murmured, but he nodded and moved to help her dish up supper and carry it in to the Deavers, tucking away his teasings until such a time as they’d be better appreciated.

He’s got a good heart, Nellie thought, unexpected tears pricking at her eyelids.

~ * ~

"Good luck to you," Nellie said when Alex and Cecil headed out after supper.

"We’re on the side of the law," Merriweather said a trifle pompously.

"Yes, well, as my Granny Dayton used to say, that don’t amount to a hill a beans when you’re looking up the wrong end of a shotgun."

"I don’t expect violence." Cecil’s voice was steady, but he blinked.

"We don’t hardly ever expect it," Nellie said, "but we get it sometimes anyway. You two be careful. Where’s your mama?" she asked Alex. "Isn’t she going?"

"I’m staying here," Lillian said. "I’m going to sit with your patient for awhile so you can rest, Nellie. Go lay down on my bed."

Nellie thought about arguing, but decided it took too much effort. "I’d welcome an hour," she admitted.

"Go." Lillian gave her a push in the right direction, then turned to her son and the lawyer. "You, too. Go and get this night’s work done. I’m not sure I want anything of John Butterwick’s--but I know it matters to you, Alex. So, go. Be careful." She gave her son a kiss and the two men left.

"You did a fine job raising that boy," Nellie said from the doorway of Lillian’s room.

The other woman smiled, but there was only a little humor in it. "He raised himself--but he still has a little ways to go before he’s done."

"Don’t we all?"

Nellie stretched out on top the counterpane in Lillian’s room and closed her eyes for just a moment. The moment turned into several and she woke with a start an hour later, the room dark around her. It wasn’t even within nodding distance of a full night’s rest, but she felt somewhat improved--though how long the feeling would last was anybody’s bet.

She stumbled out of Lillian’s room, twitching her bodice and skirt into place, and crept into her own room to find Norman in a deep sleep.

"He hasn’t even stirred," Lillian murmured. "Nor they." She nodded toward the Deavers.

Jud sat by the bed in a straight-backed chair, his head bowed over hands folded together, as if in prayer, while Shirley had curled herself up in the curve of Abel’s arm, and fallen asleep. Abel’s eyes were turned to the crown of her head, rather than to the wounded boy in the bed, and if Nellie had had any energy left for rejoicing, she might have spared some for her young friend, who looked equally--and happily--yoked at last.

Not a bad months’ work, Nellie thought. Though what Verna Louise Galway was going to have to say about her eldest taking a bride was anybody’s guess. Still, with six left at home, maybe she’d find it a cause for jubilation.

Lillian stood, the look on her face difficult to read in the dim light.

"What is it, Lil?" Nellie asked in a whisper.

But the other woman shook her head and slipped out of the room.

Nellie made her way over to Abel and Shirley, touching the young man gently on the shoulder. He looked up, his heart in his eyes, and Nellie couldn’t help but smile. She’d grown fond of the eldest Galway boy over the past couple of years, once he’d learned to chew with his mouth closed, and grown into his outsized ears and feet. She felt a stirring of something almost maternal in her bosom as her fingers tightened briefly on his shoulder. "Why don’t you carry her off to bed?" she suggested, then, as his eyes widened, "Miz Roman’s bed, you rascal. And get you on home. We’ll need you rested in the morning."

He nodded and gathered Shirley up easily, without waking her, and carried her out of the room.

This was better, Nellie thought. More like her bedroom again instead of a parlor.

Norman stirred and whimpered, and Jud’s head lifted, but the boy resettled himself, his brows all knotted up in concentration.

"The laudenum will keep him out for the night," Nellie said with more confidence than she felt. "Why don’t I fix you a pallet out by the hearth so you can catch a few winks before morning?"

Jud shook his head, his eyes on his son’s still face.

"It’s a big bed," Nellie said then. "You could stretch out next to him, Jud."

Judson hesitated.

"It won’t disturb him," Nellie said.

"Where will you sleep?" Jud asked. His voice was rusty, as if left out in the rain.

"Why, this chair is as comfortable as a bed," Nellie lied. "I’ll sleep like a baby here. Yes, and probably snore, rattling the shutters and waking up everybody in the house." When he still didn’t move, she reached to touch him on the shoulder, just as she had done to Abel some moments earlier. "You’ll be more comfortable in my bed, Jud."

She didn’t stop to think about how that might sound until Jud looked up at her, a faint twinkle in his eyes.

Nellie’s laugh was self-conscious.

"That thought had occurred to me," he admitted, his hand coming up to cover hers as it rested on his shoulder.

My mouth is hanging open, Nellie thought. Best close it. I’m asleep. I must be. Or tired. Yes, that’s it. I’m so tired my imagination has galloped on without me. But what a gallop! I can look right into his eyes and see the two of us together on this bed. Yes, and sitting together at church of a Sunday, and taking supper together at the table, and walking arm in arm down Main. But especially together in this bed.

Her cheeks were hot, his eyes bright as he moved toward her. Nellie felt herself sway. Why, he means to kiss me!

Then, And I mean to kiss him back.

Norman made another sound, jerking Nellie and Jud back to the here and now, like a blast of steam from a train running along the Buffalo Bayou, Brazos, and Colorado line.

Nellie reached for a cloth and wet it in the water in the bowl. Wringing it out, she arranged it on the boy’s forehead. "He’s heating up," she said. "We’ll need to sponge him down, Jud. We need more water."

Jud nodded, back to business. He took up the pitcher and headed out of the room.

"You’ve got the devil’s own timing, Norman," Nellie murmured. And that was probably for the best. Emotions were running high tonight. By morning, they’d be tamped down, and Judson Deavers would most likely be wearing regret along with his whiskers.

But still, as she fussed with Norman’s coverlet, she couldn’t help thinking again about what was in Judson Deavers’ eyes when he looked at her. Was it a trick of the light, maybe?

Nellie nodded to herself. That was it, surely.

But what about that feeling inside her even now as she recalled it?

Something I ate, she decided, come back to haunt me.

Only she couldn’t remember eating. All she could remember was the look in Jud’s eyes.

"Curse me for a blind fool," Nellie murmured.

~ * ~

Norman’s fever broke just before dawn. Nellie had long since set aside speculations about the boy’s father. In fact, it was all she could do not to drop where she stood, tired as she was.

"God bless you, Nellie," Jud said as they looked down at Norman, who was feeling recovered enough to scowl up at the pair of them.

"Who’s taking care of my cat?" Norman asked, trying to get up. The pain in his mangled arm seemed to surprise him. His face went white and he sank back against Nellie’s pillow.

"Don’t fret about the cat," Jud said soothingly. "The cat will be taken care of."

In Nellie’s mind, this meant a ball of lead right between the eyes, though she was prudent enough not to say so. "You’ll need to drink this willow bark tea," she said to the boy. "It’s not exactly lemonade, but it’ll help you get comfortable."

"That don’t hardly seem possible," Norman muttered, but he sipped from the cup anyway, sparing the odd grimace or two as the bitter brew went down. "Where’s Shirl?"

Jud blinked, as if his daughter had been far from his thoughts for a very long time.

"Asleep," Nellie said. "In the next room."

"That’s good," Norman said, his eyes closing. "I wouldn’t want her to fret."

Nellie almost laughed. Just like a boy to stir things up to a froth and not even realize it. The thought of stirring things up, though, led her to Alex. Had he come back last night? She hadn’t heard him--but she’d had her hands full. I wonder how the battle with the Bentleys went?

She watched as Norman settled back to sleep, then indicated to Judson that he ought to follow her on out of the room. "He’ll be just fine," she whispered when Jud joined her by the hearth.

"Thanks to you. Nell, I don’t know what we would have done without you. What I would have done. If I’d lost Norman, too--" Jud’s eyes filled with tears.

"Glad I could help," Nellie said briskly, in the hope of sparing him. "And more glad than I can say that he’s young. He’ll mend quick, Jud. He’ll rest easy now, and give us both a chance to catch up on our own sleep. I have some spare blankets in this box over here. Shall I fix you up a pallet?"

"I’ll just sit with him awhile yet," Jud said with a faint smile. "God bless you, Nell."

~ * ~

Nellie was so tired she thought she might fall asleep on her feet. I need more rooms, she thought. Then, Maybe I could get Jud to build them for me.

She ought to get some bread started, put the beginnings into a pot for soup. But instead, Nellie sat down at the trestle table, and collapsed forward on her folded arms, like a cake without enough leavening.

It wasn’t quite dawn.

The house was quiet--except for the faint snore coming from Nellie at the table.

In Nellie’s bedroom, Jud was stretched out next to his son. Norman was out like light, and Jud soon let his own relief swallow him into much-needed sleep.

Shirley slept, curled around herself like a cat, dreaming of Abel Galway.

The other bedroom and the lean-to were both empty. Alex and the lawyer had not returned last night.

So the house was quiet when Lillian Roman slipped out just before the faint signs of dawn lightened the horizon.

The calm before the storm.

~ * ~

"There’s been some trouble." The sheriff stepped out of the shadows as Lillian headed into the livery.

She ought to have been startled, but Milt Caldwell’s voice had often come to her in such a way, in the dark, steady and quiet, in better days than these. "Alex?" she asked.

"No, Lily." Milt moved to her, his arms going around her as naturally as if they belonged there. "No, the little pantywaist lawyer. Merriweather. Bentley nicked him in the shoulder. I’ve got Bentley in the jail. Thought I’d come have Nellie head out to Johnwick’s Pride to patch Merriweather up."

"I’ll do it."

Milt’s arms tightened around her. "You know about plugging holes, do you?"

She let herself be held, savored the feel and smell of him for just a moment, then pulled away. "I wouldn’t have come to Williams Trace if I’d known you were here," she said. Some pains were best dealt with by amputation. It would have been far better never to see this man again.

"Lily--" Milt began, an unaccustomed note of pleading in his voice.

"Your wife is here," Lillian said. "Right here in this town. The woman you vowed to honor and cherish. The woman who bore your son--and buried him."

Milt winced at the reference to Timmy.

"And I’m a whore," she added.

Milt was shaking his head in denial of the ugly word, but Lillian wasn’t going to let him gloss over it.

"I spread my legs for money," she said. "No matter that John Butterwick ran out on me and Alex. That doesn’t change the facts, Milt. I raised my son in a whorehouse, bought him bread for his belly, and shoes for his feet--when I could afford them--by selling the one thing I had left when John Butterwick deserted me. You wanted what I was selling--but that’s all there was to it." And God strike me down for a liar, she thought wearily, though He hadn’t done it yet because of her career choice, so maybe He had more important matters on His mind.

"You gave me more than a warm welcome," Milt said, his voice a quiet rumble.

"I--liked you," Lillian said. More than liked, but she could never tell him that. He had a wife--and Lillian Roman was, thank God and Alex, no longer selling her body for survival.

John Butterwick’s ill use of her should have wiped the stars from her eyes decades ago, but here she stood in a livery in Williams Trace, Texas, yearning toward Milt Caldwell like he was the sun and she was some kind of hungry sunflower. There was romance in this world for some--but not for a discarded wife turned prostitute. And not with this man, who already had a wife, bitter and broken though she might be.

Lillian turned away. "I’ll plug up the lawyer’s hole," she said. It would be easy enough. She only wished she could do something about the hole in her heart--the one that was leaking pain out to the tips of each of her fingers.

"The thing is--" Milt hesitated. "Nellie knows the way out to the Butterwick place. And I have to get back to the jail. Can’t leave a prisoner with no one to keep an eye on him. Bentley was--kinda bent out of shape when we told him he had to leave. I’d best send Nellie."

Lillian put a hand on Milt’s arm. "I can do this."

He covered her hand with his. "Not alone. I’ll get someone to take you out to the Butterwick place." He gave her a tired grin, with something deeper in his eyes that she couldn’t quite bear to look at. "It’ll be your place now. You need to see what you’re getting yourself into, Lily."

"Alex says it needs…" Lillian hesitated. "It needs work."

Milt snorted. "Bentley about drove it into the ground--only that sounds like he made some kind of effort, and there really wasn’t any effort going on out there. The slaves did some work, I guess, as a matter of self-preservation, but Bentley just tooled around the place fancying himself a well-to-do land owner." The sheriff shook his head. "It was a beautiful place six years ago. Whatever else John Butterwick was--" He felt Lillian’s hand tense under his. "--he made a success of Johnwick’s Pride."

Lillian’s voice was quiet, but more bitter than the dregs of week-old coffee. "He was selfish, cold at heart, cruel, and lacking in even a whisper of integrity. If that’s what it takes to make a success of the place, then Alex and I want no part of it."

Caldwell shifted, taking both her hands in his. "Lily, success comes at a price. Some pay the price in harsh coin, some in blood or lies. But it can be paid in sweat and good will, too. You and your boy can make a success of the place without tarnishing your own souls."

Lillian laughed, but it was a sound full of sorrow. "My soul is already badly tarnished," she said. "You forget the harsh coin I bartered with to provide for my son."

Caldwell’s hands tightened and he drew her closer. "I didn’t forget. I can’t forget."

Lillian froze. "I am no longer in that line of work."

Milt slid his arms around her and held her to him. "I know. But this--what’s between us--don’t have a thing in the world to do with barter, Lily." He made a sound in his throat and dropped his head, so that his mouth was just a whisper away from her ear. "I can’t stop thinking about you."

"You are not thinking with your brain," Lillian said, but it came out breathless.

"No," he murmured. "No, but it’s not just my manly parts either." He reached and caught one of her hands, pressing it to his heart. "Here," he said. "It’s here."

Lillian felt it, too, gave into it for just long enough to draw his face down, to press her mouth to his. Kissing wasn’t one of the tools of the trade. It was too intimate, too emotional. But this was not the first time she and Milt had tasted of each other’s mouths.

Things were different between the two of them--had been from the beginning.

She savored the shape of his mouth, the feel of his hands, the prickle of his neat gray chin whiskers. Then she pulled away.

It was not their first kiss. But it would be their last.

Milt’s breath came quick and labored, but he didn’t reach for her again. There was understanding in his eyes, and pain.

Lillian drew in a steadying breath. "The lawyer," she said. "I’ll go to Mr. Merriweather and see to his wound."

"I’ll find someone to take you." Milt touched the brim of his hat in an oddly formal gesture, stepped back and headed out of the livery.

It might have been different. Under other circumstances, Lillian thought. In another lifetime.

It wasn’t long before a rumpled Gene Sherman showed up at the livery and offered to carry Miz Roman out to Johnwick’s Pride. "Sheriff says someone’s been shot," he said. "Used to be Doc Applegate who’d ride out at all hours of the day and night."

"I’m sorry to put you out, Mr. Sherman," Lillian said.

"No, ma’am!" Gene’s thin, lined face got hot. "No, indeed. My pleasure. Happy to be of service."

He quickly hitched a horse to one of Loomis’s carriages, and handed Lillian up onto the cushioned seat. "I’ll have you there in a trice, ma’am," he said.

And, moments later, as dawn began to think about breaking, they were on their way out to Johnwick’s Pride.

~ * ~

Back in the livery, Cassie Loomis cautiously pushed open the door to the stall where she’d spent the night with an ailing mare. Daniel Loomis, who ran the livery, relied on his wife when it came to equine ailments. She had a light touch--for all her prattling, gossiping tongue.

What a lucky thing it was that old Blackie had done some flank-biting that had caused Daniel to fear a bout of colic! Better still that the colic had never materialized, though Cassie had sat up with the gelding just in case. The horse was as right as rain, though, and resting peacefully, and Cassie Loomis, as payment for her diligence in sitting up with the old horse, had acquired herself a wealth of news to share. With Delilah Greenly first, of course, since Delilah was her dearest friend in all the world. But then, perhaps the two of them could make a call on Eunice Caldwell.

Cassie felt a momentary twinge. Eunice had always been sharp-tongued, and completely lacking in humor, but the death of her son, Timmy, three years back, had hardened her to granite. What would word of the sheriff’s peccadillos do to her?

Cassie only let that bother her for a second. After all, a wife shouldn’t be left in the dark about such things. Wouldn’t Cassie want to know if Daniel had consorted with a--Here Cassie almost tittered aloud, excited as she was!--lady of the evening? Daniel’s wife pursed her lips. But then, Daniel wouldn’t ever stray. She had him completely wrapped around her finger. He couldn’t even buy a withered pickle from Charley Fugg’s mercantile without her say-so.

Serve crabby old Eunice Caldwell right anyway. After all, it was the wife’s duty to keep her husband from straying.

Nellie woke up with a crease in her cheek the size of Palo Duro Canyon. Her back ached, her temples throbbed, her mouth was dry, and her eyes felt as gritty as an East Texas dust storm.

That’s what comes of falling asleep at the table, she thought. Elias Farmer, for all his many short-comings as a father, had been right to throw things whenever either of his daughters began to droop into their mashed potatoes. His fork had nearly parted her hair a time or two, Nellie remembered. But then, that had cured her of falling asleep at the table, hadn’t it? Until now.

Cautiously, she sat up, and even more carefully, got to her feet. "At least it kept me from sleeping late," she murmured, then made a face. It was her opinion that, during the last month or so of her life, the Lord had certainly used a liberal hand with the spice box; sleeping late surely was a temptation.

Nellie peeked in on Norman, who seemed to be resting comfortably. This she determined in one quick glance, though she found herself spending a longer time in her assessment of the boy’s father. Judson Deavers was stretched out on his back on the bed--her bed!--his hands folded at his waist, as if he had just intended to rest his eyes for a quick moment before resuming his vigil. But Jud’s breathing was deep and slow, the sound of a weary man in it for the long haul; he was obviously a lot more tired than he was willing to admit.

Nellie caught herself smiling at the sleeping man--then she felt foolish, so she turned from the doorway just as Shirley whispered, "How is he?"

"He’s exhausted," Nellie whispered back, "and can you blame him? Up most of the night, fretting over that brother of yours." She shook her head.

"I meant Norman," Shirley said.

Caught. Nellie felt her face get hot, but it was too early in the morning for a quick recovery. "Norman looks to be resting comfortable. He’ll do, Shirley, but I hope this will teach him a lesson. A bobcat isn’t the same thing as a tabby, and he should have sense enough to know that."

"You’re preaching to the choir, Miss Nellie," Shirley said. She looked around. "I hope I didn’t cause Miss Lillian to pass an uncomfortable night. She was gone when I woke up."

"Gone?" Nellie suddenly realized that she hadn’t heard Alex return during the night, no, nor the lawyer, Mr. Merriweather either. Still, to be sure, she crossed to her second rent room and nudged the door open. Empty. That wasn’t good. And she was betting the lean-to was just as deserted.

"I’m going to wash my face," Nellie said, "and run over to see the sheriff. Can you start a pot of soup, Shirley?"

"Of course. But what’s wrong?" Shirley half-grinned. "Besides the obvious, I mean."

But Nellie had already turned away, her mind going clickety-clack like the wheels of a steam engine over wooden ties. Alex hadn’t returned, and now Lillian was gone. They’ve just gone and made themselves to home at Johnwick’s Pride, she thought by way of reassuring herself. But she wasn’t reassured, not a bit.

It was early still when she left her place, after looking in one last time on Norman. He and Jud both were still soundly asleep--which, in Nellie’s opinion, was the best kind of medicine for the both of them.

The main street of Williams Trace was wearing a coverlet of early-morning darkness. Usually Daniel Loomis, at the livery, was up bright and early, but the livery was still dark this morning. The Applegate place was, of course, wearing that forlorn air that spoke of desertion. Charley Fugg was known to sleep in, so it was no surprise to find the mercantile windows still black. Nellie headed down the planked walkway. There. There was a light burning at the sheriff’s. Milt Caldwell would know what was what.

But when she pushed into the sheriff’s office, she found the place at his desk empty. There was a rustling, though, from the cell at the back, like some kind of large rat foraging for trouble.

"That you, Caldwell?" The voice was Chauncy Bentley’s, and he was in a temper, by the sound of it. "You can’t hold me here. It was self-defense."

Nellie’s blood ran cold. "Who’d you hurt, you worthless tick? Did you hurt Alex?" She crossed to the back room and glared at the squatter through the bars of his cell.

Bentley glared right back. "None of your damned business," he said.

Nellie wanted to reach right through the bars and throttle him like a Sunday chicken. "If you harmed a hair on the head of that boy," she said, "I’ll carve you up like a roasted duck."

Bentley sneered at her.

Nellie narrowed her eyes at him. "You’re nothing but a liar and a thief, Chauncy Bentley. And you’re exactly where you belong. I hope you rot in there--except the sheriff’s wife would be obliged to come in and clean up after you."

"I’m not a thief," he said.

"What do you call claiming Johnwick’s Pride for your own," Nellie demanded, "when you’re no more kin to Samantha Butterwick than I am?"

"It was just sitting there. All that wealth going to waste. No one else stepped forward to claim it," Bentley said, his voice sulky.

"Well," Nellie said, "now they have. Did you shoot somebody, Mr. Bentley? Was it Alex?"

But Bentley was done talking. He went back to the cot against the far wall and stretched out on it, turning his back on Nellie.

And that was fine because she was done, too. Maybe the sheriff had gone home for some reason--though it was unlike Milt Caldwell to leave his office whenever there was someone locked up. Not that the one cell in Williams Trace got much use, Nellie reflected as she headed back out to the planked walkway, but that was what made the sheriff’s absence all the more alarming.

She hurried down to the Caldwell house, but the windows were dark. Eunice would still be sleeping, then, and Nellie wasn’t about to be the one to rouse her.

Well then, there was nothing left to do but wake Abel Galway and get him to hitch up the wagon. She’d just go out to the Butterwick place herself and see what was what.

She turned, saw a light in the window at the Greenly house. But Delilah Greenly wouldn’t know a thing about all of this, would she? A less-informed female than that one had never been hatched. Nellie headed over to the Galway house instead, which was right next to the church.

~ * ~

"What are you doing here so early?" Shirley whispered, but she couldn’t keep from smiling up at Abel, who stood in Nellie’s doorway with his hat in his hands, a big dumb grin on his face.

"Come to check on Norman," Abel lied.

"He’s fine," Shirley said. "Or at least he will be. He’s sleeping." She moved aside. "Come in, why don’t you? Miss Nellie’s got me fixing soup."

"Smells good," Abel said, stepping inside.

As the soup was no more than a pot of water waiting for ingredients at the moment, Shirley took the compliment for what it was. "I could fix you some breakfast," she offered, "soon as I get this put together."

Abel fiddled with his hat for a minute, then hung it on a peg by the door. "I’m not hungry."

Shirley laughed. "Now I know that’s a lie, Abel Galway. You’re always hungry."

"Not for breakfast," Abel said, his face getting as hot as one of Nellie Farmer’s pies just out of the oven.

Shirley crossed back to the trestle table and fumbled for an onion, just to give her hands something to do. Her heart was thumping in her chest. "Well, it wouldn’t be for supper," she said, just to fill the quiet. "Too early for supper."

"Too early," Abel said in a voice that came out half-strangled. He crossed to Shirley and reached for her hand, getting the onion instead. "Is it too early, Shirley Deavers?"

"For some things," Shirley said in a voice equally strangled. "Like supper. But maybe not for others."

Abel set the onion on the table and reached for her hands again, this time succeeding. He swallowed, nearly choking on his tongue, which suddenly seemed like a big dry slab of overcooked brisket in his mouth. "Other things," he managed to get out. "Other things--like this?" And he drew her to him, looking down into her widened eyes in search of some sign of welcome.

Shirley gulped. And she nodded.

That was all the encouragement Abel needed. He bent down and, very carefully, like the innocent he was, pressed his lips to hers.

Shirley had just one brief flash of panic--What if she didn’t do this right?--before instinct kicked in. Her hands went to his chest and she raised up on her toes, slanting her head to get a better angle on Abel’s mouth.

The surprise was enough to freeze him where he stood. But only for a moment. Then his arms went around her, practically lifting her up off the floor.

Abel was hungry, all right.

But then, so was Shirley.

~ * ~

"Your mama told me you were here," Nellie said as she burst through her own front door.

Abel and Shirley sprang apart like they’d been caught doing more than sharing their first kiss. Nellie’s entrance, however, saved them both from fainting, for the kiss had gone on long enough that they’d both been feeling the pains of that dilemma that often faces new lovers--whether or not drawing a breath is actually important enough to pause in the drawing of pleasure from the joining of mouths.

"Abel came to check on Norman," Shirley blurted out, her face red.

"So I see." But Nellie had more pressing business on her hands at the moment. "Abel, I’ll need the wagon. I need you to drive me out to the Butterwick place right away."

"What’s going on, Miss Nellie?" Abel took Shirley’s hand.

"I don’t know," Nellie said, "but I mean to find out."

In the end, though, it was Judson Deavers who volunteered to drive Nellie out to Johnwick’s Pride. He stumbled out of Nellie’s bedroom, rubbing the bald place on the top of his head as if surprised to find it hairless. He barely glanced at his daughter holding hands with Abel Galway before turning his attention to Nellie.

"What can I do?" he asked.

Norman was sleeping deeply, cool to the touch, and Jud seemed to think getting out of the house might clear a few cobwebs from his own head.

"We won’t be gone long," Nellie told him, glad of the company.

The sun had stretched itself and risen up out of its celestial bed by the time the wagon was hitched up and turned toward the Butterwick place.

Nellie sat on the wagon seat, wringing her hands like they were underdrawers on wash day.

Jud reached over to lay a hand over the two of hers. "Fretting won’t change things, Nell. Whatever happened, happened."

Nellie took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, turning one hand over to grasp his. "I know that, Jud. But I can’t help but worry. Nothing feels right this morning."

Nothing? He almost said it aloud, but gave her hand a little squeeze instead.

"Except that," Nellie said, returning the pressure. "That feels nice." But then she couldn’t bring herself to look at him, embarrassed as she was by her frankness, because what if he read it wrong? Or maybe right. She couldn’t decide which was worse. There was nothing so pitiful as a foolish spinster of forty, in Nellie’s opinion, who saw prospects every which way she turned.

"You’re worried about Alex Roman," Jud said after a minute or two of silence, broken up only by the creak of the wagon wheels and the occasional bird call. "But Roman’s the type of young fellow who lands on his feet, Nell. I don’t know what he’s doing out at the Butterwick place so early this morning, but I’d be willing to bet you’ll find him on his feet, completely free of holes, with that cocky grin of his plastered across his face. And I’m not a betting man by nature," he added as an afterthought.

Nellie gave a start. Judson Deavers didn’t know--? Of course he didn’t. Hadn’t Alex been playing his cards close to the vest--and trusting Nellie Jane Farmer to do the same? "I’d tell you all about it," Nellie said, "but I gave him my word."

"I admire a woman who keeps her word," Jud said. "It’s been my experience that some don’t."

There was a story there, and Nellie wanted nothing more than to hear it. But how to get him started?

Judson returned the attention of both his hands to the reins. "I’m not one to burden folks with my own troubles."

"I could tell that right off," Nellie said, her voice wry, "as stubborn as you are about accepting neighborly gestures. I don’t know your story, Jud, but I can guess some of it. There was a woman, and somehow, she let you down, and so you cut and run."

"Not from cowardice." Jud’s jaw got tight beneath his whiskers.

"No," Nellie agreed. "From pain. I know that, Jud, because I once did the same thing. It turned out for the best, though. He was faithless, but I found it out before the wedding, before there were children to think of. I made a life for myself despite the pain. And it’s been a good life, mostly. A little lonely at times, but not so’s I couldn’t bear it."

"Doloros’s timing was the devil’s own," Jud said. He sighed, as if it was being wrenched from the very depths of a wounded soul. "Wasn’t until long after the wedding--after the babies, too--that she decided we needed to be in town. Our place was too far out. There weren’t any shops, not enough quality people to chat up. I didn’t provide enough, the children were too demanding, the house I built with my own hands wasn’t fancy enough. I thought if we moved in to town, gave up the family land, sold the house, she’d finally be happy."

"But she wasn’t," Nellie guessed.

"She’d already met someone," Jud said. "In fact, it was who I sold the land to, and the house. Turns out the place was just fine after all--as long as Judson Deavers and his kids weren’t out there sharing it with her. So Doloros got the land and the house, a new man--and I got a pocketful of change and the children when she divorced me.

"She claimed I deserted her, treated her ill. That her years of marriage to me were the worst kind of torture, and that our kids had been turned against her by me. We stuck it out in town, the three of us, on what I could make with my wood-working, but Doloros couldn’t seem to leave well enough alone. She made sure there was talk that she came off the victim, that anyone making a friend of us looked no better than a dog rolling in a cow pie.

"It about broke Shirl’s heart. A girl wants her mother’s love--but Doloros didn’t seem to have any left over after the portion she spent on herself." Jud was quiet for a long minute, then he cleared his throat. "We finally left. Thought we could start over somewhere, make a go of it."

Nellie waited.

"But a storm of bad luck seemed to follow us no matter which way we headed," Jud said at last. "Until now." He cleared his throat again, studied the space between the ears of the mule on the right as if it held all kinds of interesting secrets. "I mean, it looks as if Shirley has found herself a young man. Galway seems like a solid fellow. Upright, I mean. Likely to treat her decent."

"He turned out good," Nellie said. "The whole town despaired of him five years ago, but he outgrew the worst of it." She paused. "I’m right fond of Abel Galway. He’ll cherish your Shirley, Jud. You won’t have call to worry."

Judson nodded, and they rode along in silence for a few minutes, then he cleared his throat a third time. "I talk too much."

At that, Nellie chuckled. "No, sir, you don’t. But if you dam it all up for too long, sometimes it spills over the top. As I have good reason to know for myself," she added with a rueful shake of the head. "I can no more control my tongue than I can stop a steam engine with my bare hands."

"But you have," Jud said. "Any number of times, Nell. You’ve kept Deavers’ business to yourself, and Roman’s, too."

And Carlisle Applegate’s, Nellie thought with surprise. "Lord have mercy," she said aloud. "I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks." She sat forward on the wagon seat. "Turn here, Jud. This is Butterwick’s place. Johnwick’s Pride, he called it, though I’m guessing there was little enough to be rightly proud of, when all was said and done." She grinned at Jud. "And that’s also a story I can’t share--but only because I don’t know the half of it."

There was a carriage pulled up in front of the big house, and a wagon just now coming around from the stable, when Judson and Nellie drew up.

"That’s one of Daniel Loomis’s carriages," Nellie said. "But who would have driven it out here this early?"

Jud climbed down and came around to hand Nellie down.

"And I don’t see the sheriff’s horse," she added. "Come on, Jud." She kept hold of the hand he’d offered her, pulling him after her up to the fancy front door of the big house. Knocking with her free hand, she turned to Jud, grinning. "I’ve half a mind to just stick my head in and yoo-hoo--but make note of how I’m controlling that inclination."

"You’re to be commended," Jud said with dry humor, liking the feel of her hand in his.

The door was flung open by an underfed Negro wench in her mid-twenties. There were hollows beneath her cheekbones, but Nellie caught a sparkle of excitement in her eyes before the house slave lowered her gaze.

"Yas’m?"

"Alex Roman here, girl?"

The girl nodded, stepping back to let Nellie and Judson in.

There was a pile of stuff jumbled on the floor of the entryway, and Ursula Bentley stood over it, her sallow face set somewhere between shock and humiliation.

"Moving day," Nellie murmured. "The only crime that girl committed was being born with a disagreeable personality. It’s her folks who tried to cheat the law. Ursula," she said in a louder voice, "you need a cup of hot tea with lots of honey. Did you have any breakfast? You look peaked."

Ursula’s gaze jerked from the meager pile of belongings to Nellie’s face. True to form, her face settled into a sulk. "Come to gloat?"

"No, dear," Nellie said with a patience Jud admired, when his own first inclination was to slap the girl for her rude tongue. "I’m looking for Alex Roman."

"Alex Butterwick," Ursula said bitterly, "is upstairs seeing my mother don’t steal the silver on her way out."

"Wise young man," Nellie said under her breath, but just loud enough to reach Jud’s ears. "We’ll see ourselves up," she said louder, pulling Jud with her toward the stairs. "No need to announce us." This was for the benefit of the house slave, but Ursula took it personally, her sallow face getting blotchy with anger. She snatched up a vase and aimed it at Nellie’s head, but the house girl caught it on the back swing and whisked it off to safety.

The house had been none too clean when Nellie and Alex had come out to dinner before, but the worst of it had been concealed by evening pools of forgiving candlelight. Now, in the harsh light of early morning sun spilling relentlessly through dingy curtains, the place was a disgrace.

"Alex will need the whole town to turn out and help him set this place to rights," Nellie said.

They’d achieved the top of the stairs by now, where they found Alex Roman and Persephone Bentley practically nose to nose, glaring at one another.

"I won’t stand for your insolence," Persephone said, her voice shrill. "I’ll take what’s rightfully mine, and nothing more."

"Oh, you can take a little extra, Miz Bentley," Alex drawled, "but it’ll be a little extra of my choosing. You and your husband haven’t left me a whole lot to work with."

"We’re not thieves."

Alex didn’t reply to that, beyond the arching of one eyebrow.

"We’re not, I tell you!" Persephone’s thin face was almost purple with rage. "The place was empty. You should be paying us generously for managing it for you until you got around to taking up residence."

Alex shook his head, half-admiringly. "You have an interesting way of looking at things, Miz Bentley. You do indeed. But I’m sorry to say that, as managers go, you and Mr. Bentley are the worst I’ve ever seen. Still, I’m willing to send you away with a few provisions--of my own choosing, not yours!--to tide you and your kids over while Chauncy Bentley serves his time for shooting up an officer of the court."

Nellie had followed this exchange with interest, but now she clutched at Jud’s arm. "It was Mr. Merriweather! Bentley shot Mr. Merriweather. Is he hurt bad?" she asked Alex.

Alex flashed a quick grin in Nellie’s direction. "Nice to see you this fine morning, Miss Nellie. Make yourself to home."

"How bad was Mr. Merriweather hurt?" Nellie repeated.

"Just enough to make him interesting," Alex said. "My mama’s in fixing him up right now." He jerked his head toward one of the open doors along the hall. "Go on ahead."

Nellie drew Jud along with her, patting Alex’s arm as she passed him. "We’ll get the church ladies out here to help with the cleaning, Alex. I’ll talk to Verna Louise Galway this very afternoon."

"I’d be obliged," Alex said. He nodded at Jud. "Deavers."

"Roman," Jud replied. He thought he must look as confused as he felt, because Alex laughed.

"Nellie, feel free to fill in a few details. The fat’s in the fire now. People will want to know some of the story."

Jud noted the emphasis on "some", and the meaningful look Alex gave Nellie along with it.

Nellie grinned in reply--and Jud saw that part of the story was going to remain forever tucked away in that generous bosom of Nellie’s. Well, fair enough. It wasn’t his nature to pry, though there weren’t many in the world like him.

Nellie found Lillian winding one last strip of bandage around Cecil Merriweather’s shoulder as he lay, naked from the waist up, on a hastily-made bed.

"You’ll not have known this," Nellie said, "being a gentleman and a lawyer, but when the bullets start to fly, it’s a good idea to duck."

"Miss Farmer." Cecil’s pale face took on some color as he fumbled for the remains of his white shirt.

"Now, don’t go getting all formal on me, Cecil," Nellie said. She crossed over to put an arm around Lillian. "How you holding up, honey?"

"Fine," Lillian replied. "I’m fine."

"That’s good." Nellie gave her a squeeze.

"I’m the one who got shot," Cecil pointed out.

Nellie reached down to pat his hand. "And you’ll have scars to show off, won’t you? You’ll be impressing the ladies no end, Cecil Merriweather."

He seemed to take comfort from this thought, and only winced a little when Lillian eased him back into what remained of his shirt.

"Lie down awhile longer," Alex’s mother suggested. "I have a feeling it will be quite some time before things settle."

"Bentley--"

"Bentley’s in jail," Nellie interrupted.

"It has been a rather long night," Merriweather said in his formal way. There were deep smudges of fatigue and pain under his eyes.

"Rest," Lillian said, and smiled down at him. "You will always be welcome here, Mr. Merriweather. You’ve done my son a great service."

The compliment seemed to perk Cecil up a little, like water does a thirsty plant. "I am a servant of the court, ma’am," he said. "And very happy to have been of service to your family in the process."

Lillian made as if to draw the counterpane up over him, but it was none too clean, so she thought better of it. Gathering up the bowl of bloody water and bandages on the commode next to the bed, she said, "We’ll check on you in a little while, Mr. Merriweather."

"I’d be obliged, Mrs. Butterwick."

"Roman," she corrected him, perhaps more sharply than she knew.

"Mrs. Roman," the lawyer repeated obligingly, his eyes drifting shut.

Jud reached for the bowl as the two women reached the door, and the three of them stepped back into the hall, where Persephone Bentley was still squared off with Alex Roman.

Alex threw them a look of frustrated appeal. He’d obviously made no headway with the interloping female.

That’s because he’s too polite, Nellie thought. His mama raised him to respect a lady. She grinned. Well, Nellie Jane Farmer grew up without a mama. And Persephone Bentley is no lady.

"What are you complaining about, Persephone?" Nellie interrupted. "You had free rein of this place for better than three years, and now the rightful owner wants to send you on your way with provisions enough to tide you over? Alex Roman, you cad! How dare you treat this criminal so kindly?" Her eyes twinkled at Alex for a moment before she turned back to Persephone. "Face up to the truth, Persephone Bentley. You dealt him ill. In fact, you dealt the whole town of Williams Trace ill. And if all you’re getting off with is a wagon load of goods, then you’d do well to say thank you kindly, and then high-tail it out of here before the master of Johnwick’s Pride changes his mind."

"Nellie Farmer, you’re a fat, interfering--buffalo!" Persephone was so angry she was just about spitting. "And your--your pie crusts are--tough!"

"That didn’t stop you from using one of them to take a blue ribbon at the town fair last summer," Nellie said genially.

Alex put his arm around Nellie, his eyes narrowing. Persephone shrank a little at what she saw in that glare. "You will apologize to Miss Farmer right now," he said in the coldest voice Nellie had ever heard from him, "or I will shoot you dead for a trespasser."

Persephone opened her mouth as if to argue, but snapped it shut as his eyes narrowed further.

"Nellie Farmer is the best friend I have in Williams Trace," Alex went on, his free hand going to his gun. "And no one--No one!--speaks to her the way you just did. Do I make myself clear?"

"I--apologize," Persephone choked out, then turned and clattered down the stairs.

"Thank you for defending me," Nellie said, "but she was right, Alex, except about my piecrusts. I am interfering--and a fat buffalo, besides."

Alex turned his glare on her. "No one speaks ill of Nellie Farmer around me. Not even you."

Nellie thought about arguing, but the fact was, it gave her a glow to hear him say it, so she gave him a swift hug, then pulled away. "You’re taking to this master thing like a duck to water, Alex. You got a natural bossiness to you."

Alex relaxed a little. "Well, it’ll come in handy, won’t it? This place is a wreck."

"Nothing a lot of hot water and hard work won’t put to rights," Nellie said.

"You all right, Mama?" Alex reached for Lillian. "I’d have liked to make it nice for you first--but I don’t want to wait ten years to bring you out here."

Lillian smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I’ll be glad of the work, Alex. I’m not used to idleness."

"No, but some day you will be," Alex promised.

Jud had hung back through all this, taking it all in, his hands curling into fists at the Bentley woman’s attack, a knot of what felt like jealousy tying up his stomach at Alex’s response. But now Nellie turned to him and smiled, and the knot loosened a little.

"I’m going to stay a while this morning, Jud, lend a hand."

"Do you--" He paused, cleared his throat, and changed his mind about what he was going to say. "--think Norman is all right?"

Nellie nodded. "He’s out of the woods. He’ll mostly need sleep, and a few drops of laudanum will help him get it. Abel can come for me if something crops up sooner, but I’ll make sure to be home in plenty of time to feed everyone, and to change Norman’s bandages. I can understand your wanting to be with your son, Jud. I was selfish to drag you out here, wasn’t I?"

"No," Jud said quickly. "No, I was glad to do you a good turn, Nell. After all, you’ve done so many for me and mine."

"Well, my Grandma Dayton used to say good turns aren’t for trade. We just pitch in when the pitching is needful."

Alex reached to shake Jud’s hand. "Thank you for bringing Nellie out, Deavers. I’ll see she gets home safe in a few hours."

Thus dismissed, Jud had no choice but to head down the stairs. He suddenly felt about as low as the belly of a snake under a wagon wheel. From worrying about his son, he reminded himself. It had nothing to do with anything else.

The over-thin house slave was at the bottom of the steps. She ran to open the door for him, and took the bowl of bloodied water from him.

Both mother and daughter Bentley, though, were nowhere to be seen.

Judson clapped his hat on his head and headed for the wagon.

~ * ~

Back upstairs, Nellie was turning to Lillian, about to suggest they decide where to start first, when Alex interrupted.

"That Judson Deavers has got his eye on you." Alex’s voice was pitched low, and there was a teasing gleam in his eyes.

"Well, I’m hard to miss," Nellie said tartly, but her cheeks got pink.

"Guess I’ll have to challenge him to a duel," Alex said with a grin. "Winner take all."

Nellie gave a look around. "You already got your hands full," she pointed out. "Don’t bite off more than you can chew."

Lillian had followed all this with a half-smile, but now her brow furrowed. "Didn’t you say there was a son, Alex?"

"Quinton," Nellie said. She turned to Alex. "Where’s Quinton?"

Alex shrugged. "Haven’t seen him. Maybe he turned tail and eloped with that Brita Blum. Aren’t they engaged?"

"Not once she finds out he won’t be inheriting this place," Nellie predicted. "But I wonder where the little weasel has hid himself in the meantime?"

"What’s all the commotion?" Brita Blum had been listening to the rumble below stairs for quite some time. Quinton Bentley sprawled across her like a dead animal, his snores grating on her, the tangle of covers trapping her as the sun crept slowly up to spill morning light through the dingy curtains of Quinton’s musty bedroom. "Quinton!" She shoved at him and he flopped over on his back, like the callow pup he was.

"The sun’s up, Quinton," she hissed. "And something’s going on."

Quinton’s mouth made a smacking noise, as if his tongue was dried out, and his eyes came half open. "Huh?"

"I said, the sun’s up. You overslept. And I can hear things going on in this house."

Quinton’s eyes came open another notch. "Things?"

"That popping noise in the middle of the night," Brita said crossly.

"Somebody hunting," Quinton said around a yawn.

"Does the deer usually yell ‘ouch’?" Brita asked, her voice cold.

"I didn’t hear that," Quinton said. His eyes were mostly open by now, but he wasn’t much enjoying the view. Brita had parts on her that used to get him excited just thinking about them, but she hardly ever smiled at him lately, or took a sweet tone like before. She’s as snippy as Mama, he thought. He wasn’t much for deep thoughts, but that one made him shiver.

Now she was glaring at him, like she would run him through with something sharp, if only she could lay her hands on it.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get up," Brita snapped. "Go see what’s what."

He flopped over, scrabbling for his clothes. She’s after me like I was some kind of hen-pecked husband, he thought sourly.

"I’m not going to be able to slip out of here easy now that the sun’s up," she said, like it was his fault.

All I did was go to sleep, Quinton thought. That’s not a crime. I was tired. He’d gobbled her like she was dessert in the night, but even the extra spice of doing this in his own room, under the very noses of his folks, hadn’t made the taste of it sweet. Truth was, yearning for Brita Blum was a lot better than actually having her.

He had his britches up to his knees when the bedroom door opened.

Nellie and Lillian stood in the open doorway of what they now knew was Quinton Bentley’s bedroom, with Alex behind them, a trio of gaping mouths, with six eyes stretched wide.

Brita Blum was sitting up, completely naked, in the middle of a rumpled bed, her face red from anger and humiliation, while Quinton Bentley’s bare backside pointed toward the open door, as if armed and ready to shoot.

"I--beg your pardon," Lillian said. "I didn’t know this room was--occupied."

The door closed with a little snick.

"You didn’t lock the door!" Brita shrieked on one side of the door, just like she was a cat and someone was yanking her tail.

"Well," Nellie murmured on the other side of the door, "I guess Persephone Bentley’s going to have herself an extra mouth to feed."

Alex shook his head. Quinton Bentley was going to have his hands full, that was for sure. And Alex Roman was glad as all get out that Brita Blum was somebody else’s problem. He had enough of his own.

~ * ~

The underfed house slave showed Lillian and Nellie around. There were a few places in the big house that were immaculate--but they were the places the house slaves worked and spent time in. The rest of the house, where the Bentley family lived and slept, was just a whiff away from a pig’s wallow.

It was obvious that Persephone Bentley had had no more idea of how to manage a house and its slaves than Chauncy Bentley had had about field hands and stables.

"It’s a crying shame," Nellie said when they came across yet another musty room. "The carpets look like they haven’t been beaten since John Butterwick died. There’s enough dust to grow a crop of cotton. You’ll need a whole regiment of church ladies, Lil, or you’ll never see the end of this."

~ * ~

Alex went out to round up a few of the slaves to help load up the Bentley wagon. Gene Sherman, who had driven Lillian out early in the morning, was still hanging around, ready to lend a hand if showing the Bentleys off the place got ugly.

Brita Blum sailed down the stairs half an hour after her unfortunate exposure with the Bentley heir, ready to throw her weight around as the future mistress of Johnwick’s Pride, but she stumbled to a halt at the sight of the wagon being stocked with a few meager goods. "What are you doing?" Her voice was shrill as she addressed the big black creature who was hoisting a musty tapestry bag into the bed of the wagon. "Who is moving?"

"Bentleys, miss," the slave said. He kept his eyes downcast from self-preservation, knowing better than to let this white girl see how much he was enjoying himself.

"What do you mean?" Brita asked, but the world under her feet already felt as if it was crumbling. "Why are the Bentleys moving? This is their place."

"No, miss," the slave said politely. "The Bentleys is being e-victed, so’s Mist’ Butterwick’s oldest son can take up where he belong."

"Butterwick’s oldest son was killed," Brita argued. She’d heard the story a hundred times. Percy Butterwick had been stabbed with a pitchfork by a slave, and had died out in the stable.

"Mist’ Percy was killed," the slave agreed, "but Mist’ John had himself a son before Mist’ Percy."

"Who?" Brita asked, her voice faint. "Who is John Butterwick’s oldest son?"

"Mist’ Alex," the slave said.

Big Abe didn’t know if life would be better for the slaves with Alexander Butterwick as their master. Slavery was slavery, after all, but at least there would be food enough to eat if this son of John Butterwick had even half of his father’s way with the land.

"Alex Roman?" Brita cried, as if she’d been shot. "Alex Roman is the Butterwick heir?" She clutched her stomach, as if she might throw up.

Persephone Bentley swept out the front door, cloaked in a palpable fury. Her eyes narrowed on Brita Blum. "Come to join us in exile?"

Brita shook her head, backing away.

Persephone’s pinched lips pinched tighter. "No, of course not. Lead my Quinton around by the nose and abandon him at the first sign of trouble."

"It wasn’t his nose," Ursula Bentley muttered, throwing Brita Blum a look of intense dislike.

Alex came out and thumped a roll of blankets into the wagon bed.

"You have a visitor," Persephone Bentley said to him, her voice sour enough to curl a fellow’s toes. "She goes with the house."

Alex looked over at Brita Blum, whose face was scarlet. "She goes with your son," he said. Though his voice was quiet, there was no mistaking its firmness.

On this point, there would be no negotiating.

~ * ~

Less than an hour later, the Bentley wagon was as laden as it would ever be, with both bag and, in the case of Quinton’s sulky fiancée, baggage.

Persephone glared at Alex as her son slapped the reins along the backs of the two old horses the Bentleys had driven into town some years ago. The wagon pulled away with a jerk, and headed off toward the boundaries of Butterwick land.

Alex took his hat off and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Possession, he’d always heard, was nine-tenths of the law. This could have gone a lot worse than a bullet hole in Cecil Merriweather’s shoulder--though Alex was willing to bet the lawyer wasn’t exactly counting his blessings at present.

And now Johnwick’s Pride was his possession, thanks to the legal miracle of heirship.

He turned and looked at the place. It was a mess, but it was his mess--yanked out of the hands of John Butterwick by what Alex devoutly hoped was a slow, painful death. And now wrested from squatters, who had just about run it into the ground.

Alex squared his shoulders. He would make this a showplace for his mama--who’d had too many years of grief from her short years of serving as wife to John Butterwick. He’d hoped she’d never have to lift a finger again--but that would have to come later. It would take a lot of lifted fingers to get this place in shape. Alex wasn’t afraid of hard work. He’d do this--and anything else that came along--for the best mother on God’s green earth.

~ * ~

Eunice Caldwell’s eyes were dry. So dry, in fact, that they seemed to burn.

If there’d been tears, they’d have turned to steam.

But there weren’t any tears.

Tears were for Timmy Caldwell, dead too young. Tears were for the only thing good in Eunice’s life--which now lay six feet under and eating dandelions by the roots.

"You all right, Miz Caldwell?" Daniel Loomis wasn’t a perceptive man by nature, but even he could see something was out of kilter with the sheriff’s wife as she awkwardly mounted Milt Caldwell’s horse.

She turned to the sound of his voice, but didn’t appear to see him, then dug her heels into the horse’s flanks.

Daniel Loomis shook his head. Women were a puzzlement, that was for sure. Hadn’t his own Cassie been like a cat with cream over the breakfast table this morning? And all for what?

Loomis reached for a bridle that needed working on. Well, it was none of his business, was it? Let the sheriff worry about his own wife. Daniel Loomis had enough to do.

~ * ~

Milt Caldwell lobbed an apple core through the bars of the cell. "Shut up," he said to Chauncy Bentley.

"You let me out of here," the other man snarled.

"You shot a man," Milt said. "Unprovoked."

"I was plenty provoked!" Bentley was just about spitting, he was so mad. "He was trespassing!"

Milt got up from his desk. They’d been down this road more times than he wanted to count. He was tired of listening to the man. He picked up his hat and clapped it on his head. "Shut up," he said again, and left. Bentley wasn’t going anywhere until he’d spent a little time with the circuit judge, who would be in Williams Trace by the end of next week.

In the meantime, Milt Caldwell was going home to wash his face and change shirts. His eyes felt gritty from the long night’s work, and the shirt on his back was as tired as he was. Then maybe he’d ride on out to Johnwick’s Pride and see how Lily’s boy was doing with clearing out the Bentley debris.

He was deep in the tricky work of not thinking about Lillian Roman, or he might have seen the half-wave Daniel Loomis threw at him, as if to call him over to the livery. But Milt Caldwell was busy not thinking about the line of her cheek, the melancholy pair of eyes, her slender neck and the curve of her naked shoulder. And that listening way she had, as if she’d heard it all before but never judged, never got impatient, never demanded more than a fellow wanted to give.

Milt thought of the night he’d confessed to Lily that he played the banjo, and how her eyes had lit up like it was something to be proud of.

Eunice had always criticized his playing--even before Timmy’s accident--told him it wasn’t a white man’s instrument and that he shamed them all every time he picked it up.

Milt shook his head. How had he ended up married to Eunice Davenport in the first place?

He sighed.

And what could he do about it now--except keep on being married best as he knew how?

~ * ~

The slave who seemed to be most looked to by the others was Big Abe. He wasn’t called "Big" for nothing, though his large frame looked like the meat of it had shrunk some, and his close-cropped hair sprouted spots of white, like a ripening cotton boll.

"Call everybody together," Alex told him. "Things are gonna change around here."

Big Abe hoped so--but they’d changed before, hadn’t they? And not for the better. So they’d just wait and see, wouldn’t they?

Big Abe wasn’t given over to much philosophizing--but he had long believed this place, this Johnwick’s Pride, was cursed. It had been a curse to Miz Samantha, Mist’ Butterwick’s wife, who’d died of the ague. It had been a curse to Percy Butterwick, run through with a pitchfork to stop him from raping a white girl. It had been a curse to ol’ Mist’ Butterwick himself, shot dead by Benjamin Rivers--and Abe was glad of that, though it didn’t bring young Nate back, did it? It had been a curse to the surviving son, Vernon, too, who was shot down like a rabid dog by a preacher man.

Big Abe shook his grizzled head. And it sure had been a curse to Big Abe and the other slaves, hadn’t it?

Why would anybody think that was going to change?

It would take powerful magic to break a curse this big.

~ * ~

Consorting with harlots, Eunice Caldwell thought as she hung on to the reins of her husband’s horse. My angel in the grave, and Milton Caldwell spilling his seed into a soiled vessel, and paying for the privilege.

Eunice’s eyes were glazed, but she could see clearly the looks of false sympathy on the faces of Cassie Loomis and Delilah Greenly. They’d thought she ought to know, did they? Eunice’s lips twisted. Yes, as the wife, she certainly ought to know. But who else would they think ought to know? That nosy Nellie Farmer? The sanctimonious Verna Louise Galway, whose pious husband still made frequent use of the marriage bed? Eunice blinked.

She couldn’t get Timmy back. Her precious baby was gone forever.

But Eunice Caldwell would be consigned to the hottest corner of hell before she’d let Milton Caldwell go. No, he had to stay on--and share in every last whimper and morsel of her misery.

Eunice Caldwell lightly touched the gun for reassurance.

~ * ~

A clean shirt was not as good as a full night’s sleep, but add some coffee and Milt Caldwell would be set for the day.

Eunice wasn’t home when he got there, but this wasn’t unusual. The wife kept herself busy enough, though at doing what, Milt wasn’t sure. It certainly wasn’t at the cooking and cleaning. Milt sent his shirts out to be done by Inge Blum, made his own coffee and breakfast--though Eunice did set a supper table every evening at exactly six o’clock, whether he was there to share it with her or not.

Milt felt a twinge.

Frankly, he didn’t much care what she did, as long as it kept her from wallowing in her grief. For a year or so after Timmy’s accident, he’d thought for sure the woman was going to snap.

Headed back to the sheriff’s office after freshening up, he sighed. No doubt he’d be listening to another battery of complaints from the squatter, Bentley. But the man had had no call to shoot the lawyer, and the circuit judge was the one who’d determine the penalty. That, thank the good Lord, was not the sheriff’s job.

"Hey, Sheriff!"

Milt looked up from whatever corner of his soul he’d been studying. "Hey, Loomis."

Daniel Loomis had the worried look between his eyes of a hen-pecked husband. "Your wife took your horse, Sheriff."

"Eunice?" Milt echoed, just as if there were another choice. "Eunice don’t ride," he said.

"She was riding," Daniel insisted. "Headed down Main, like she was aiming for the Miller place, or maybe Butterwick’s."

Milt shook his head. A fine time for Eunice to take up riding. What had gotten into the woman? Why, she hardly even consented to go to church without a carriage and matching team to get her there.

While he was puzzling over it, Loomis’s wife slipped up to grip the crook of her husband’s arm. "Delilah and me," she said, "thought it was the wife’s right to know."

Milt looked at Cassie, still half muddled by the mental image of Eunice Caldwell astride a horse. "Know what?"

Cassie tossed her head, a malicious smile hovering at the corners of her too-small mouth. "It’s one thing to go to Six Gun Hollow," she said. Daniel flinched, like a rabbit caught nibbling the lettuces. "But it’s another thing all together," Cassie went on, "to bring Six Gun Hollow here."

"You told Eunice--something about Six Gun Hollow?" Milt managed to get the words out, though his mouth had gone completely dry.

"The wife has the right to know," Cassie said. "And," she added pointedly, "so does the rest of the town--when it’s the sheriff."

Milt almost staggered. Eunice on horseback, carrying the truth like a millstone, heading toward--Butterwick’s place? "I need a horse," he said to Daniel Loomis. "Quick, man! A horse!"

~ * ~

Alex had made a fine speech to the assembled slaves, and sent them off to work. "I’ll carry you back into town, Nellie," he offered. "I need to pick up some things from Fugg’s mercantile." He grinned. "Do you think he’ll extend me some credit?"

Nellie snorted. "Charley Fugg? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word, honey. You’ll have to define it for him--spell it out in big letters, maybe--and then coax and wheedle him around to the idea. And even then, he’ll act like you’re asking for his first-born son. He’s the penny-pinchingest, close-fistedest creature that ever wore britches. I’d almost rather ride over to Peach Creek to do my shopping than to dicker with Charley Fugg."

"Bad blood between you," Alex guessed. "He propositioned you, you turned him down, and now he’s loaded for bear."

Nellie snorted again. "Propositioned me? Huh! As if he’d even have the good taste to try! And even if he had, Alex Roman, you can bet your last golden eagle I’d have turned him down flat. No, the fellow is just an annoyance, that’s what. Laughing at folks’ peccadillos. Thinking himself better than the rest. Rude to his customers."

Alex held both hands up, laughing. "All right. I get it. He’s a cow pie in the middle of Main Street. But do you think he’ll give me some credit?"

Nellie looked doubtful. "Well," she said at last, "you can always ask." An approaching rider caught her attention.

"Who’s that?" Alex asked, squinting.

Nellie strained to make out the face. "Why, it’s the sheriff’s wife! Eunice Caldwell. I wonder what she’s doing all the way out here. I hope Norman Deavers hasn’t taken a turn for the worse."

Milt Caldwell heard the first shot and dug his heels into the borrowed horse’s flanks.

"Hurry, damn you!" he said.

The horse picked up its pace.

~ * ~

"Mama!" Alex lunged for Lillian, who had crumpled at the door of the big house, a corsage of blood at her breast. "Mama!"

Eunice Caldwell flinched, as if the word stabbed at her. How long since she’d heard her Timmy’s voice call her by name?

Nellie’s eyes were round with horror, but she moved toward Eunice anyway. The gun was still too tight in the woman’s hand. Nellie could see the white knuckles from here. She inched closer. "That must be heavy," she said in her most soothing voice. "No woman should have to carry such a heavy thing, Eunice. Set down your burden, honey, and let’s get you some tea."

A burden, Eunice thought, raising the gun. You have no idea.

"Mama," Alex said again, his voice broken.

Eunice flinched again, her fingers tightening on the trigger.

~ * ~

The second shot made Milt Caldwell’s blood run cold.

He galloped up the Butterwick drive, then tightened the reins until the horse almost unseated him.

Nellie Farmer stood, rooted to the spot like some kind of tree, her color gone, her eyes stretched wide as if, somehow, she could make them see things differently than they really were.

Milt took in the sight of his wife of twenty years, sprawled on the ground, half her head shot away, a gun--His gun!--in the dirt next to one slightly curled hand. Eunice. Regret rose like bile in the back of his throat.

"Mama."

Milt turned. It was Alex Roman, a crumpled form in his arms.

Lillian had a red flower pinned to her bosom, Milt thought. A gaudy thing, its color spilling down the starchy whiteness of her shirtwaist. He took a step toward her. The color of the flower was too bold; it leached the bloom from her cheeks. She looks as pale as a ghost, Milt thought, taking another step closer.

Alex was keening now, gathering his mother closer, rocking her like she was the child and he the parent, his face contorted, but completely dry of tears.

Something was wrong with Lily. Milt stopped, looked back at Eunice, at Nellie, at Alex, and finally, with dread, again at Lily Roman.

And stood there, helpless, as still more blood seeped into Butterwick soil.

~ * ~

It was Alex who carried Lily’s body inside, setting it on a bed that was none too clean, for all its grand trappings. He had the dazed look of a child, a little boy who found himself in completely unfamiliar territory.

Nellie touched his shoulder, but it was as if he couldn’t feel her, couldn’t feel anything.

"This was for you, Mama," he said. "It was all for you."

"Alex." Nellie yearned to comfort him, to draw him into her arms and hide his face from the sight on the bed, but he knelt there as if he’d been planted. "Alex, honey."

But it was as if he’d gone deaf.

And there he stayed, dry-eyed, his face stiff with shock.

Nellie hovered, wanting to help, but Alex was silent, gripping his mother’s cold hand, his head bent as if in prayer, so she finally slipped out.

Sheriff Milt Caldwell had a similar look of shock on his craggy face. He hadn’t moved an inch since Nellie had followed Alex inside.

"Sheriff?" Nellie touched his arm--and he flinched, as if he was the one who’d been shot.

"I must have known she was crazy," Milt said at last. "She hasn’t been right ever since Timmy was killed. But I never thought she was a danger. I swear to God, Nellie. I never thought she’d handle a gun. She hates guns. Horses. Texas." He paused. "Me," he added.

"She didn’t hate you, Milt," Nellie said.

Milt dug a bandanna out of his back pocket and smoothed it out, then stood as if he didn’t know what to do with it.

"Here." Nellie took it from him and crossed to Eunice, then spread the bandanna out to hide the worst of the shattered head.

"Lily?" Milt’s voice was closer to a croak than anything else.

"Eunice killed her, Milt."

And that’s when the sheriff began to cry--great, dry, heaving sobs that sounded as if they were being ripped out of his gut. Nellie could hardly bear to hear them. She moved to comfort him, but he shrugged off her sympathy and stumbled, half-blind, to the front door of the big house.

Nellie saw the big slave--Abe, was it?--coming around from the stable. "You there," she called.

He came warily, as if fearing this trouble was somehow going to be laid at his own big, bared feet.

"Is there a wagon?" Nellie asked. "Is there another wagon besides the one the Bentleys drove off in?"

"They a carriage," Big Abe said, looking doubtfully at the body with its kerchief-covered face.

Then it would have to be hers, Nellie thought. "I’ll need you to go into town," she told the slave. "I have a wagon. Get Abel Galway to drive it out here, you hear me?"

"Yes’m."

"Well, get after it," Nellie snapped.

The splatter from Eunice’s wound was already drawing flies--and that suddenly seemed the worst part of this whole horrible thing.

"Yes’m." Big Abe headed for the stable. The rest of the place might be a shambles, but the horses had been better fed and cared for than the slaves. Or, in fact, Chauncy Bentley’s own children.

~ * ~

By the time Nellie’s wagon drew up to the front of the big house, Alex Roman had blacked the sheriff’s eye and Nellie had threatened them both with a dunking in the big pond out behind the house.

Deep in their mutual grief, the two men blamed each other for the events of the morning, and it was all Nellie could do to keep Alex from sending Milt Caldwell off to join his wife in the next life. Milt, of course, blamed Alex for bringing Lillian Roman to Williams Trace in the first place--because that was the only way he could bear to look at things. But it told a story the way the sheriff had just stood there and taken Alex’s punch as if it was his due.

"What’s going on?" Judson Deavers asked when the house slave led him in to the house.

Nellie threw him a look that was a mix of surprise and--was it relief? "Abel was to bring the wagon," she said, though she looked like she was glad enough of the change in plans.

"He’s helping Shirl with Norman," Jud said--which didn’t even begin to describe the obstinance of his son, who was itching to get up and go make sure his bobcat was not scared or hurt.

Nellie nodded, but she was clearly distracted. "We got two bodies to haul into town, Jud."

Judson flinched. "Bodies?"

"The sheriff’s wife," Nellie said and, with a hitch in her throat, added, "Alex’s mama."

Jud, bless him, didn’t ask questions, but just set right to work, moving things around in the back of the wagon.

Eunice was being taken home, where a legion of church ladies, headed up by Verna Louise Galway, would do what they could to make her presentable for the wake.

Lillian was going to Nellie’s place, where Nellie herself would see to readying her for burial.

Both would be buried in the cemetery behind the church--because Eunice had lived in Williams Trace for close on twenty years, and because Alex rejected the thought of laying his mother to rest in this cursed Butterwick soil.

Nellie could see his point. How comforting would it be to bury the abandoned wife next to the bigamist and the replacement he’d chosen?

It was a bad situation all the way around, but at least there would be no trial to make it worse.

~ * ~

Persephone Bentley had shrieked at her son until he’d finally driven the wagon down Main Street and stopped in front of the sheriff’s office. There, she’d climbed down and gone in to shriek awhile at Chauncy Bentley who, at last, had laid down on his cot and put a pillow over his head to block out the noise.

Being ignored only made Persephone angrier, which was when she’d commenced throwing things through the bars. Her aim was bad, hampered as she was by the iron barrier, but there was no shortage of ammunition.

Ursula Bentley shrank herself down in a corner of the wagon bed, wishing herself dead.

Brita Blum gave her betrothed a scornful look, and climbed down from the box, making a beeline for the laundry.

Inge was already hard at work, sweat curling tendrils of hair around her thin face.

"Mr. Bentley’s in jail," Brita announced.

"I heard." Inge didn’t look up, nor did she elaborate, though the story was already all over town, spreading like a prairie wildfire.

"They were squatters," Brita went on, with all the moral outrage of a sanctimonious spinster.

Inge kept scrubbing at Gene Sherman’s shirt, thought it had looked plenty clean when he’d brought it in first thing this morning. He’d had a pinched look around the eyes, as if hungry for something he was doing his best to resist, but that had eased at Inge’s welcoming smile.

"I’m just glad," Brita went on, "that I found out the truth before the wedding."

At that, Inge looked up. "Property owner or not, you’re still marrying Quinton Bentley."

Brita tossed her head. "I most certainly am not!"

"Yes," Inge said in a quiet voice that chilled her sister to the marrow of her bones, "you are."

"I won’t marry beneath me," Brita said, but it lacked conviction.

"By now, everyone in this town knows who was beneath who," Inge said, for her, crudely. "If you don’t marry Quinton Bentley, Brita, what will you do?"

"I’ll work here with you," Brita said. "I’ll do laundry." She almost shuddered as she said it, but it didn’t matter. Inge was already shaking her head no.

"You won’t stay here," Inge said. "You made your bed when you stained the sheets of his. You’re a Bentley by your own choosing, Brita. Best pack your things."

Brita looked like she was going to stamp her foot, maybe throw a tantrum of epic proportions, but there was unfamiliar steel in Inge’s voice. And in the end, Brita Blum quailed.

She crammed things into pillow slips, and, out of spite, emptied Inge’s tin cup of its coins, but in the end, she went to rejoin Quinton Bentley, who was no gladder to see her than she was to see him.

And Inge, with a sigh dredged up from the very depths of her soul, turned back to Gene Sherman’s shirt. A button was loose. She’d mend it when the shirt was dry.

~ * ~

"It’s a sad ending," Nellie said to Jud as they headed back into town with Eunice and Lillian wrapped in musty sheets from the big house.

Jud nodded. Nellie had filled him in on the whole story.

She was still smarting from Alex’s rejection of her attempts to comfort, but grief took some people that way. Best to just leave Alex to work through it, and help in what ways she could.

"Bentley promised me steady work," Jud said after they got Eunice’s body into the Caldwell house and laid out on the unmade bed. "He rode up to the church to hire me not five days ago. Said his place needed work and he’d heard from Abel Galway that I was handy with tools."

"Steady work?" Nellie cocked her head. "Meaning you’d stay on awhile?"

Jud sighed. "That was the hope. But now--"

"Alex will need someone to do that same work," Nellie said. "The Butterwick place won’t repair itself."

But Jud was shaking his head. "He won’t stay, Nell. I’m sorry if that grieves you, but he won’t stay on after this."

"Of course he will!" Nellie felt as if the air had been knocked right out of her. "He’ll stay on, Jud. Of course he’ll stay! Why, it’s his birthright."

Jud could see this was a touchy subject, so he wisely left it alone, turning back to his own problems.

"A whole lot of broken promises, Nell. Bentley’s isn’t the first. Why, we’ve practically paved a swathe across Texas with them."

"My Grandma Dayton used to say, ‘Promises, like piecrusts, are easily broken’. But think of a pie, Judson. When you break the crust, there’s something tasty inside."

"So you think I should just be thankful?" He shot her a look that showed her how much he didn’t agree. "Grateful that people don’t keep their word to the Deavers?"

"That’s not what I’m saying," Nellie said impatiently. "I’ve faced a few broken promises myself over the course of these forty years. But I can look back now and say, ‘Why, if Lawrence Foster had married me at twenty, I’d have missed out on Williams Trace altogether’--my friends, my business, my life. I’d have turned into a silly shallow thing like my sister--and he’d have still left me for California in the end." Her face got pink. "You may think I’m silly and shallow anyway, but I can see the difference, Judson. My life is fuller, richer because of that broken promise."

Jud sighed. "I see what you’re saying, Nellie. But it’s hard to scrape up perspective when it’s your children inheriting the fruits of other people’s perfidy."

She patted his hand. "I’m sorry, Judson. I can only speak for myself. I never had children, so I can’t speak to your pain." She turned away. "I need to just learn to keep my nose out of other folks’ business."

"No," Jud said quickly and caught her hand. "Nellie, don’t think that! You’ve been a godsend to us."

Nellie couldn’t look up at him, so she looked at their linked hands instead. "A godsend," she said and managed a dry little chuckle. "Well, He sent the plagues to the Egyptians, too, and you never read that Pharaoh was any kind of grateful."

Jud tugged at her hand and drew her closer. "We’re grateful, Nellie. I’m grateful." His voice had gone so soft that Nellie needed to look up at him to see what he was saying. "I got no right--"

"No right?" Nellie echoed.

"I’m a man with nothing to offer," he went on. "Not to anyone. I been trod on so many times I’m like a braided rug in need of a good beating."

"Then stop laying down," Nellie said, and pulled her hand away. "They can’t walk on you, Judson Deavers, if you don’t lay yourself down on the ground in front of them!" She marched down the planked walkway, turning back just once to add, "You offered me friendship when I needed it most, Judson Deavers. That may mean nothing to you, but it means a whole lot to me." Then she continued on to her place, and Jud was left gaping.

~ * ~

Norman was awake and cranky, chafing at his enforced bed rest.

"Don’t mess with me," Nellie snapped at him, shutting him up for the first time since he’d awakened that morning. "You need to heal. To heal, you need to rest. So rest, you ornery child!"

To that end, she shooed Abel and Shirley out of her bedroom and closed the door with a snick. "Abel, you’ll need to help Mr. Deavers bring in Mrs. Roman. Shirley, I wouldn’t mind the help in tending to her."

Shirley gulped, but nodded.

Abel was all ready to argue, wanting to spare the girl from the grisly task, but Shirley quelled his chivalrous impulses with a look.

"A sad business," Nellie muttered, and headed to the room that had so briefly been Lillian Roman’s.

~ * ~

Nellie sponged the body tenderly and, with Shirley’s help, wrestled it into clean under things and a pretty dress. It wasn’t easy working with the stiff limbs. It was as if Lillian was resisting them every inch of the way, protesting her untimely demise, balking at the service being done her.

But at last she was laid out, silver coins resting on her eyelids to weigh them closed. Shirley hooked one last shoe button with the button hook and stepped back.

"You did good," Nellie said, patting the young woman on the shoulder. "Bless you, Shirley." Nellie tucked a strand of hair into the twist at the back of her head and ran a weary hand over her face. "This has been quite a day," she said, "and it’s not yet supper time."

"I started the soup this morning," Shirley said, "and set some bread to rise."

"Bless you," Nellie said again.

"You need a rest," Shirley said.

Nellie chuckled. "Well, I’ll just climb into bed with Norman, shall I? Or maybe stretch out here, next to poor Lily."

"The bed’s free next door," Shirley said. "I’m guessing Mr. Merriweather will be staying out at Mr. Roman’s place for a day or two."

"It’s none too clean out there," Nellie said, "but I’m thinking, much as he doesn’t care to travel, he’ll stay put awhile."

"Then come have a lay down," Shirley said. "I’ll finish up the cooking and call you when supper’s ready."

Nellie could feel the sting of tears come to her eyes. When was the last time someone else had done the care-taking for Nellie Jane Farmer? She couldn’t remember. "Bless you, Shirley," she said for the third time. "God bless you, honey."

~ * ~

Shirley had just slid the bread in to bake when Abel wrapped his arms around her from behind and gave her a hug.

"You’ve had yourself a day, Miss Shirley Deavers," he said as he rested his chin on the top of her head.

Shirley allowed herself to relax against him. She liked the feel of Abel Galway. He was solid. Homey. "I’ve had worse," she said.

"What are you? Sixteen?" Abel’s voice rumbled through the top of her head. "How old do you figure you have to be before you’re old enough to get married?"

"I’m old enough now," Shirley managed to get out past a sudden tightness in her throat. "If you mean to you."

Abel turned her in his arms then, and looked down into her sweet face. "You’re not scared? It’s not too soon?"

Shirley raised up on her tiptoes and boldly pressed her mouth to his. "I figure the sooner the better," she said against his lips.

His arms tightened, and his voice deepened two or three notches. "Oh, yes. I figure you got that right." His mother was likely to have conniptions, and no telling what Mr. Deavers was going to say, but Shirley fit into his arms and heart like she was born there--and the miracle of it was that she appeared to feel the same about him. He pressed one more kiss to her smiling mouth, then pulled away. He wasn’t a minister’s son for nothing. "Maybe we could get it done tomorrow," he managed around a throat gone dry.

"Tomorrow morning," Shirley clarified, her eyes bright.

~ * ~

Nellie had gone right to sleep and even the scent of supper didn’t rouse her. She slept like the dead in her rent room, and didn’t stir until the night was as black as a slave’s dark eyes.

She jolted awake.

There was someone in the room.

"I’m sorry." It was Alex.

"No, that’s all right, honey." Nellie fought to clear her head as she struggled to sit up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "How are you doing?"

"She looks peaceful," Alex said in the dark. "Like she’s resting."

"No one deserves peace more than your mama, honey. She’s in a better place." Nellie mouthed the platitude, even as her heart felt like it was being squeezed in somebody’s big fist. "Oh, Alex, honey. Come here."

Alex made a noise of grief, quickly stifled, as he moved to the bed and Nellie gathered him into her arms.

"It was me should have given her peace," he said in a voice all choked up with anguish. "The big house could have been a better enough place, Nellie."

"I know, honey," Nellie crooned, stroking her fingers through his hair. "I know."

She felt the heat of his tears as he pressed his face into the curve of her neck. He’ll be his prideful and cocky self again come morning, she thought, but right now the dark frees him. "There, there, honey," she murmured, rocking him. "There, there."

How long they sat on the edge of the bed was anyone’s guess, but finally, Nellie could feel the tears slowing, the tension in his back and shoulders easing. At last, Alex gave a sigh, like a weary child, and stretched out, resting his head on Nellie’s lap. She petted him, like he was some kind of house cat, her free hand moving from his hair to the bump of his shoulder and back again.

"You can move out to the big house with me," Alex murmured.

Nellie’s hand stilled. "Honey, I can’t do that. I’m not your mama."

Alex’s hand moved up to settle on her hip. "No, I know that, Nellie, but you can still move out there with me. Help me set things to rights. Be there to make it a home."

Nellie was shaking her head as he spoke, even though the room was too dark for him to see it. "No, Alex. My home is here. This place is all my own. It’s where I do my work, welcome my friends." She mustered a chuckle. "Take in strangers. Besides which, honey, that wouldn’t be proper, me moving out to the big house. It would cause a scandal."

Alex expressed his opinion of scandal with a few choice epithets.

Nellie chuckled again. "Well, say what you will, Alex, but the folks of Williams Trace are my neighbors and friends--and there’s scandal enough without me adding to it. I can’t replace your mama, Alex." She commenced to patting him. "I’m sorry, but that’s the hard fact of it."

"I could marry you," Alex said. "There’d be nothing scandalous about that."

Nellie snorted. "That’s where you’re wrong, honey. That would be nothing but scandal."

Alex sat up abruptly, put his arms around Nellie. "No, it’s a good idea, Nellie. We’re both alone. I got that big place and no one to share it with me."

She could hear a thread of desperation in his voice. She reached to rest a hand on his cheek. "If loneliness is our only common ground, Alex--well, that’s just not enough." She felt a tenderness for him, almost maternal, as if she’d take his pain on herself if only such a thing were possible. "I love you like you were my own rascally nephew," she added, "but I’ve been single for forty years, and I’m not about to change that just to move into a bigger place."

"There’s other reasons to get married," Alex said. And he was kissing her, his lips moving soft at first, then pressing harder.

Nellie was so shocked she felt her jaw drop.

Wrong move.

Alex thrust his tongue into her mouth.

She could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the yearning in his hands and mouth, and almost--Almost!--she wanted to respond.

But this was Alex, who deserved younger and more comely. Alex, who was grieving for his mother, and desperate for something to heal the gaping wound in his heart. Alex, who might marry a fat, foolish spinster, but would never love her as she, Nellie Jane Farmer, deserved to be loved by one special man.

Nellie drew away, but she drew away gently. Alex was panting and Nellie was surprised to find herself a little short of breath as well. So there’s still a fire to be lit, she told herself, pleased, but not by this boy. "Honey," she said aloud, "that’s the best offer I’ve had my whole life, but you’re not clear in your head tonight. Things will look different in the morning. You’ll see that it just wouldn’t do. Not for either one of us."

He made a sound, as if he would protest, but Nellie stopped him. "I’ve come to love you in these past weeks," Nellie said. "You’ll always be welcome here. I’ll do whatever I can to help you, honey."

"Then marry me," Alex said stubbornly. "Move out to the Butterwick place with me."

Nellie chuckled, but it was tender. "Bless you, Alex, for turning my life upside down. I cherish your friendship--and marrying you would be the quickest way I know of for us to kill that friendship dead as a rock. I want to be here to help you, but you don’t need a wife, honey. You need a friend."

Alex was quiet for a long while, then he sighed as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He reached for her again, but only to lay his head on her bosom, like a child seeking comfort.

"There, there," Nellie crooned, and smoothed his hair.

~ * ~

Lillian Roman was buried quietly the next morning.

By the time Nellie was up and washed and dressed, it was done--and Alex Roman was gone.

He’s likely gone back out to the Butterwick place, Nellie told herself.

But that proved not to be the case.

There were funeral breads to cook, as Eunice Caldwell’s interment was going to be a town event. Milt was delaying the burial until the beginning of the week so that Eunice’s sister could arrive from Peach Creek.

When the lawyer, Cecil Merriweather, arrived back at Nellie’s place Monday morning, his wound freshly bandaged and his face an interesting shade of pale, Nellie expected to hear that Alex was already hard at work setting his inheritance to rights.

"I’m to sell it," Cecil told her. "Lock, stock and barrel. Land, slaves and horses."

Nellie put her finger through the crimped crust of the pie she was holding. "What?"

"Alex Roman has left me the task of getting rid of Johnwick’s Pride." Cecil sighed. "He’s gone. I’m to hold any monies accrued from the sale in trust until further notice."

"Gone?" Nellie was still trying to wrap her mind around the idea. "Alex is gone?"

"He had no reason to stay," the lawyer said. "He only wanted his mother to have what she, by law, deserved." He shook his head. "A tragedy."

"Gone," Nellie said slowly, "as in, not coming back?"

"Highly unlikely, in my opinion." Cecil Merriweather shook his head again. "He couldn’t leave fast enough. I scarcely had time to get the paperwork together."

"His mama died Friday," Nellie said. "He buried her Saturday morning. And now you’re telling me he’s gone--and without saying good-bye?"

The lawyer shrugged. "He said good-bye to me."

"I’m sorry to hear that Alex Roman left," Jud said formally, if not quite truthfully, when he came to collect Norman the next day. "I know you’ll miss him."

Nellie nodded. "I will. He stirred things up, Alex did. And I hate to think of him carrying the burden of his grief alone." She sighed. She’d been wrestling with her hurt and regret ever since her conversation with Cecil Merriweather and, so far, the hurt and regret were winning. "But there wasn’t really anything else he could do, was there, when all was said and done?" Still, I couldn’t have married him, she told herself for the ninety-ninth time. She reached for the pie in the middle of the trestle table. "Here, I’ll cut you a piece, Jud."

Judson started to demur, but was over-ridden by his son, who was much improved. "I mean to have some," Norman informed his father. "Beats whatever we got cooking at home."

"Bobcat," Jud muttered.

Norman paled.

"Not really," his father said quickly. He turned to Nellie. "I guess we’d both admire a piece of pie, Nellie."

Nellie cut two generous slabs and set the plates down in front of the Deavers. Enough wallowing, Nellie Jane Farmer, she thought. Time to think about something else. "This’ll give us a chance to talk about the wedding," she said aloud.

Jud stopped with a forkful of pie just inches from his lips. "Wedding?"

"Abel and Shirley," Nellie said. "I don’t hold with long engagements. Temptation has too much chance to rear its ugly head. I think it’s best to have the wedding as soon as possible, and the reception here at my place. Verna Louise Galway is a good woman--but she’s the worst cook ever laid hand to pan. She’ll do a dandy job with the flowers over at the church--and not be too interfering a mother-in-law, I’m thinking, if we can only figure out a way for Abel and Shirley to have their own place." She grinned. "A little distance is the best wedding gift a parent has to offer--or so I’m told."

"Shirley is marrying Abel?" Jud asked carefully. "My Shirley?"

Norman snorted around a big bite of pie. "Of course she is, Daddy. Where you been?"

Nellie patted Jud’s hand. "She’s an old soul, your Shirley," she said. "She needs a place to sink her roots. Abel is good solid ground. He’ll treat her right, Jud. He’s got steady work, the wagon’s just about paid off, and I’ve half a mind to let them move in here. Though I’m not sure I could keep myself from interfering from time to time. It’s a fault of mine, not easily mended."

Jud shook his head as if his ears were ringing. "My Shirley wants to get married?"

"Of course she does!" Nellie’s eyes widened. "You didn’t know, Jud? And here I’ve let my tongue flap like it was wet sheets on a clothesline. I’m sorry." She clapped a hand to her mouth, but only briefly. "It should have been Shirley and Abel who did the telling. Well, Shirley the telling, and Abel the asking, if you know what I mean. I’ve half a mind to get the two of them together, fuss at the both of them. Maybe knock their silly heads together. As Shirley’s father, you should have been the first to know. Well, the second or third, after Shirley and Abel, that is." Nellie chuckled. "Though it didn’t take them long to figure things out, did it?"

"Shirley means to marry Abel Galway?" Jud spoke slowly, as if his brain was still trying hard to catch up.

"Of course, if I invite them to move in here, I’m going to need someone to add on some extra rooms--which I was meaning to do anyway." Nellie’s face brightened. "Why, I could hire you to do the work, Judson! I’ve been thinking to make this place a regular boarding house. Maybe even a hotel, like that nice one over to Standard’s Point. You could do it, couldn’t you? Build me some extra rooms? Maybe a second floor?"

Jud shook his head. "A second floor would mean starting over down here so as to support the extra load."

"See?" Nellie beamed. "I’d never have known that if you hadn’t said so, Judson. Well!" She placed her hands flat on the trestle table. "What do you think of that? I’ve come up with a good idea, haven’t I? I’ll invite the children to move in here with me, you’ll do the work on my place, I’ll have more room, you’ll have work, and Norman here can get his fill of my cooking."

Norman was helping himself to another slab from the pie tin, but he paused long enough to grin in Nellie’s direction. "Daddy can build anything, Miss Nellie."

Jud looked liked he’d had one too many surprises sprung on him at once. "Where’s Shirley? I thought she was working for you today."

Nellie nodded. "She’s gone over with Abel to the mercantile to order me some supplies. I can’t abide that Charley Fugg. It’s nice to have someone else to go do the talking to him."

"She went with Abel?" Jud’s eyes narrowed. He stood up, abandoning his pie. "If you’ll excuse me--"

"Oh, but they’ll be right back," Nellie said quickly, grabbing for his arm and missing.

Jud was already clapping his hat on his head as he headed out the door.

"I’ve put my foot in it this time," Nellie said mournfully. She sat down at the table across from Norman. "Opened my big fat mouth and let my tongue run away with somebody else’s business, like a wild horse in a prairie fire. I thought I was improving, but I see now I have a long way to go."

"Eat some pie," Norman advised. "It’ll make you feel better. Here. Have Daddy’s piece."

Nellie studied it like it was something she’d never seen before, though she’d pulled it out of her own oven not two hours ago.

"Never mind," Norman said. "I’ll eat it." He slid the plate back, and forked himself a bite. "You know, if Daddy’s going to be working here," he said with his mouth full, "then Shirl ought to move out to our place with Abel, and Daddy and I could move in here with you."

Nellie felt her cheeks get hot. "That wouldn’t be proper."

"Why not?"

"Your daddy is an unmarried man," Nellie said. "It wouldn’t be proper."

"You had that Alex Roman staying on here," Norman said. "He was an unmarried man. Why was that all right and not us?"

"That was different," Nellie said, flustered.

"I don’t see how," Norman said. "Can I have another little bite of pie?"

Nellie slid the pie tin toward him, deep in thought. Abel and Shirley would be happy as clams out at Benjamin Rivers’ old place. Enough privacy for newlyweds, but not so far from town that they both couldn’t get in to work for her. Bess and Benjamin wouldn’t mind; Nellie was sure of it. They wouldn’t be back anyway, and the cabin was standing idle as a saloon keeper on a Sunday morning.

And having the Deavers here might not be improper. Why, Norman was chaperon enough, wasn’t he? And it wasn’t as if there was anything stirring between Nellie Jane Farmer and Judson Deavers anyway. How could there be? She’d only known the man a short while. Nellie’s cheeks turned pink. And it certainly would be easier for him to work on her place if he was staying here, wouldn’t it?

Of course, he was kind of town shy, and Norman was animal-crazy, so maybe it wouldn’t work out after all.

"Do you think Mr. Loomis’d let me help with the horses?" Norman asked, his voice wistful.

"When you’re all mended," Nellie replied. "He’d be glad of the extra hands, I’m sure." Well, that’s half a problem solved.

Norman’s face lit up. "Then Daddy and me, we’ll just move on in to town, Miss Nellie. How about today?"

"Hold your horses, son," Nellie said.

"Oh, I hope so!" the youth said fervently. "I do hope so, Miss Nellie."

~ * ~

Judson’s steps slowed as he reached the mercantile. He could see inside; his little girl was smoothing out a length of yard goods, with that big galoot’s hand resting lightly on the middle of her back. Getting married, were they? Jud’s temper was set to boil. Without a by-your-leave, were they? Just deciding between themselves, and his baby girl not yet seventeen, was it? Well, not on Judson Deavers’ watch!

He pushed the door of the mercantile open, and his daughter turned, her face so alight with happiness that Jud faltered in mid-stride.

"Daddy," she said, and took Abel by the hand, dragging the young man over. "Daddy, Abel has something to say."

Abel shifted from one big foot to the other, his ears going red. "Ask, really." He pitched his voice low, glancing back at Charley Fugg, whose ears were pricking up like a pig at slop time. "This isn’t the best place, sir, but I was hoping you’d--" He gulped, as if his throat had gone completely dry. Shirley gave his hand a squeeze. "I hope to marry your daughter, sir," Abel said. "If you’ll give us leave."

Jud tried glowering, but it didn’t rest easy on his face. He reached to smooth down his whiskers, as if they were bristling with disapproval, though they weren’t. He looked long and hard at his Shirley’s bright face, then longer still at Abel’s humble, hopeful one.

Who was Judson Deavers to say no to these two? Hadn’t his own mama been married at thirteen, and hadn’t she died happy forty years later, his daddy’s arms around her? Just because he hadn’t managed the same kind of marital bliss didn’t mean his daughter didn’t deserve her own chance at happiness.

Jud lowered his brows. "Thank you for asking," he said to Abel stiffly. "Shirley’s one to make up her own mind, though. It’ll be hard work giving her away, Galway, and I’ll come after you with my carving tools if you treat her badly, but she can surely marry you, if she’s of a mind to."

"Oh, I am, Daddy," Shirley said.

Jud nodded. "That’s good enough for me, then. I’d best take Miss Farmer up on her offer of work, so’s I can pay for a wedding."

"I can--" Abel began, but Judson cut him off with a glare.

"It’s my right as her daddy," he said. "It may take me awhile, though, so I hope you’re in no big hurry." He barely managed to stifle his grin at the look of dismay on both their faces. "I’m thinking fall."

"Fall?" they echoed.

"Or maybe just after Christmas," Jud mused. And he turned on his heel and left the mercantile, patting himself on the back for giving the pair of them a good rattling. Serves them right, he thought. Shaking me up like they did. Young people ought not to think they can run things how they want, when it’s the father who should be ruling the roost.

Out on the planked walkway, he ran into the minister’s wife. Verna Louise Galway was in full sail this fine morning. "I understand we are to be related," she said to him.

Jud whipped off his battered hat, wishing he had better clothes to present himself in. He didn’t want to shame his daughter by his shabby state. "So I hear, ma’am," he managed around a dry throat.

Verna Louise nodded. "Come to supper tonight," she said cordially, "you and your children. We have a lot to plan for in a very short time. They mean to wed on Sunday next, you know, and I think it best not to delay. Fires can be dangerous when left untended."

"Sunday--next?" Jud echoed.

"They’ll move in with us, of course," Verna Louise went on as if he hadn’t spoken. "It will be crowded, but we’ll make do."

"With--you?" Jud repeated.

"Well, good day to you, Mr. Deavers. We’ll see you at six." And with a pleasant nod, Mrs. Galway sailed on.

Jud settled his hat back on his balding head. There had to be a better answer than sending Shirley into the minister’s crowded house. There was the cabin, of course, but with one room, it wouldn’t afford the pair any kind of privacy--not with nosy Norman under the same roof.

He thought of the bright face of his daughter, the almost slavish devotion he’d seen in young Galway’s eyes--and he felt a pang. No, he didn’t begrudge them their happiness, but it opened up a divide in him that was as lonesome as wind whistling through a canyon. Jud had been running for two years--running from the pain Doloros had inflicted, running from anything that might make him start to feel again.

He’d seen a fine courage in the faces of his daughter and her future husband--a courage to take that leap of faith, knowing there was a chance of hurt ahead. Because wherever there was love, there was also the power to wound.

Maybe it’s not courage, Jud thought. Maybe it’s sheer, blind ignorance.

Well, whatever it was, Jud wanted some. He was tired of running away. He was tired of giving up. He wanted…

Well, best ponder on what he wanted. Was there a chance it was there to be had--if only he could muster up the courage to ask for it?

Deep in thought, Jud headed back to Nellie’s.

~ * ~

Nellie’s place felt as empty as a pauper’s money bag once Jud carried Norman off. Cecil Merriweather had vacated his room as well, preferring to lodge out at the Butterwick place while acting as de facto overseer, until Johnwick’s Pride was sold.

And all trace of Alex was gone.

But Nellie didn’t like to think about Alex. With Alex gone, everything had the feel of bread dough with the leavening left out. Made it hard to rise to the occasion--but she’d been baking all day and into the night, preparing for Eunice Caldwell’s funeral, which was tomorrow. So, even without leavening, she thought with a sigh, I guess I know what I’m good for.

She wrapped the last of the bread loaves and set it with its brothers on the laden trestle table. Abel would help his mother set up the tables on the church lawn tomorrow, then come help Nellie carry the breads and pies over.

Another funeral, Nellie thought with another sigh. First, Bonnie Applegate, then Lillian Roman, and now Eunice Caldwell. If the pattern held true, Milt Caldwell would disappear after the funeral. Carlisle Applegate had, and Alex--but Nellie didn’t want to think about Alex.

Think about Milt, then. Milt had holed up in his office, his face as grim as an undertaker, with nobody but that Chauncy Bentley for company.

At least, until Cecil Merriweather had stopped in and announced he wasn’t pressing charges and, as such, the sheriff was obliged to set his prisoner free. Milt had argued about it, saying that shooting a lawyer in the shoulder was only half of it. What about the years the man had spent taking from Butterwick land, lying to the townspeople, claiming ownership where no ownership existed?

But in the end, Bentley had been turned loose, reunited with his humiliated and furious family, and they’d ridden off into the proverbial sunset with a strong warning never to return.

And Milt had gone back to his office to brood.

Nellie could see why a man might not like to spend his nights under the same roof as the murdered body of his wronged wife, so she’d brought dinner over to the sheriff’s office. Milt had thanked her for it, then left it untouched.

No doubt laying the blame for this whole tragedy at his own feet, Nellie thought. And she wasn’t sure but that the man might be right. Until she thought about the part played by Cassie Loomis and Delilah Greenly. The two of them had done more mischief with their untimely gossiping than Nellie had in a whole lifetime of sharing information. Were the pair duly chastened? Nellie didn’t know. But they ought to be.

With a sigh, she crossed over to one of the lamps. It was time for bed. Past time. She was tired beyond words tonight, feeling every one of her forty years. Out with that lamp, and over to the smaller one she would carry with her into her bedroom.

Washing the sheets had been another huge task, but Shirley had pitched in. The girl was a hard and willing worker. Abel was getting himself the best kind of woman for a wife.

Nellie pressed a hand to the small of her back, just barely stifling a groan.

Yes, indeed. It was past time to be turning in for the night.

She carefully picked up the lamp and had taken one step towards her bedroom when there was a knock on her front door.

"Who in the world--?" She set the lamp down again and crossed to open the door.

And there was Judson Deavers. He stood, hat in hand, the street behind him all quiet and dark, his face in shadows. "I know it’s late," he began formally, "but I thought this might be the only time I could catch you alone."

I’m alone, Nellie thought, feeling cross, because I’m about to go to bed. Still, she stepped aside and gestured for him to come in. "What can I do for you, Jud?" Her eyes felt gritty and every part of her seemed to her like it was sagging clear to the floor, but it wasn’t in Nellie Farmer’s nature to turn anybody away. Especially this anybody.

Jud hesitated, then stepped into the dimly lit room, hanging his hat carefully as if he meant to stay awhile.

"Can I fix you some tea?" Nellie asked, already turning toward the kettle on the hearth.

But Jud caught her by the hand. "I didn’t come for tea," he said.

His voice was so sober that it scared her. "Are the children all right? Norman hasn’t hurt himself again?" she asked. "You know, putting him to work with Daniel Loomis’s horses might be the best thing in the world for him, Jud, as fond as he is of animals. At least horses can be gentled. Not like those wild creatures he keeps using as a substitute. I’m no expert, but if a child is that crazy about something, there ought to be safe ways to encourage him. I--"

"Norm’s fine," Jud said. Then, before she could ask, "Shirl’s fine, too. I didn’t come about the kids. At least, not directly."

"How about you?" Nellie asked. "Are you feeling poorly, Jud? You look a little peaked, but that may be just because the light is bad. Or maybe it’s my eyes that are bad. You’ve had a hard few days." She reached as if to put her free hand on his forehead, but he caught it and now he held both of her hands in his.

Jud took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I’m fine, Nell. But I have a few things on my mind and I’d like to get them out in the open."

"Well, that’s fair enough," Nellie said. "You don’t talk overmuch, Jud, so things are bound to pile up in you from time to time, and I’m more than happy to listen." Even if it’s late and I’m as tired as can be. Even as she thought it, though, she realized she wasn’t as tired as she’d been a few minutes ago. "Would tea help?" She started to pull her hands away, but Jud held on to them.

"No tea," he said firmly. "No pie on a plate with a freshly ironed napkin, no needle and thread to reattach a button, no bandaging or borrowing or bustling around taking care of things. I just want you to hear me out, Nellie."

"Oh." Nellie was a little surprised. All he wanted was for her to listen? Well, she could listen, though there were those in Williams Trace who would say she either did way too much or not nearly enough of it in the regular course of each day. She looked at Jud, her eyes taking in the neat whiskers on his chin, the smoothness of his mostly hairless crown, the kindness--and the unfamiliar spark!--in his brown eyes. "What is it, Jud?" she asked.

Judson cleared his throat and his hands tightened around hers. "I think I ought to move in with you."

"Oh!" This wasn’t what Nellie was expecting to hear. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this. "Well, that’s fine, Jud. You mean to take the job, then? That’s just fine. We’ll put you and Norman in the little room, if you don’t mind, or one of you could take the lean-to--since I’d like to keep the bigger room free to rent. And that’ll leave Benjamin’s cabin for Abel and Shirley. That’s a grand idea, Jud."

"No, I don’t mean to take the lean-to, or to share a room with Norman." Jud swallowed. He was holding her hands so tight by now that they almost hurt. "I want to move in with you."

"M-me?" Nellie wasn’t sure she was hearing right.

Jud made a sound of impatience, as if annoyed by his lack of a glib tongue. "I’m saying this bad, Nell, and there’ll be folks all over town say I’m no better than the Bentleys, asking for things I’ve got no right to have. But I want to be a husband to you."

"A--husband?" Nellie echoed, as if this were a phrase in Chinese or some other such outlandish tongue.

"I’m no great prize, Nell. I couldn’t keep Doloros happy. Haven’t done so well at making my kids happy, either. They’ve had to put up with a lot. Haven’t had much happiness inside myself that I’ve thought I had enough left over to share." Jud sounded like he was talking himself out of something. His grip on her hands loosened. "In fact, I’m the worst kind of fool for coming here like this tonight. I’m sorry."

Now it was Nellie hanging on, not letting him pull away. "You’re saying you want to marry me?" She paused, then added carefully, "You can stay here without marrying me, Jud. This is a boarding house. People stay here all the time without marrying me."

"It’s not the house," Jud said. "I don’t want to stay in the house, Nellie. I want to stay with you. You are the best thing to come into my life in forty-two years of living. You have words when my tongue is bone dry. You trust people when I’m so afraid of being hurt that I hide like some kind of hermit. You care about folks--and you turn that caring into acts of kindness. You have a steady hand when things go bad, and a steady heart that never seems to turn up empty. You’re everything I’m not, Nellie, and I was wrong-headed to think I could bring anything to you that you didn’t already have." His eyes dropped, as if he was ashamed of the raw emotion in them.

"You want to marry me." Nellie’s voice was calm, but there was a bubble of something inside her that made her feel as light as a white-flour cake. "You want to marry a fat, foolish, jaw-flapping busybody, who sticks her fingers in everybody else’s pies because she doesn’t have any kind of pie of her own. You, with your clever hands and your kind eyes and your two fine children, and your strength and courtesy and courage--you want to marry me?"

"You think I have kind eyes?" Jud asked. "Clever hands?"

"I think you’re the best man that ever walked through my door, Judson Deavers."

"You think you might like to marry me?" he asked, his eyes filling with a hope that made Nellie’s eyes sting.

"Like to?" Nellie echoed. "My goodness, Jud! I don’t think that says even half of what I’m feeling about the idea."

"It’s growing on you then?"

"It’s such a grand idea that I wish I’d thought of it myself." Her eyes twinkled.

"You didn’t?" Jud seemed disappointed to hear this.

"How would I dare?" Nellie asked.

"Same way I dared," Jud said. "With a deep breath, fingers crossed for luck, and both eyes closed from fear of getting yourself an answer that would pain you."

Nellie laughed, but it was kind of breathless. "We haven’t known each other very long."

"Feels like forever," Jud said promptly. "And I figure we got all the time in the world to discover all the little details about each other that we lack."

"There is one thing, though…"

"What?" Jud pulled her into his arms.

"That," Nellie said with a sigh, and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

Jud’s finger came down to tilt her chin up. "How about this?" And, bending his head, he kissed her.

Now, Nellie had been kissed before. Laurence Foster had pressed kisses to her young lips as he’d whispered promises into her ear so many years ago. Garrett Galway, Abel’s uncle, had ventured a kiss or two a few years back, when he was courting her for her cooking. And Alex Roman--bless him!--had kissed her just a few nights ago.

But none of those kisses warmed Nellie the way this one did--clear from the heart to very tips of her fingers and toes.

"Oh, Jud," she murmured against his mouth. Then, "Are you sure?"

"Surer than I’ve ever been in my life," Jud said, and there was a new confidence to his voice that made Nellie’s heart leap. He pulled her closer, though she’d thought they were already as close as two people could get.

"Well, then," said Nellie Jane Farmer, "about those clever hands of yours…"

Jud smiled.

~ * ~

Jud had finally taken himself back out to the cabin, but it had been hours before Nellie had been able to fall asleep, so loud was her heart humming.

Nellie Jane Deavers, she’d thought more than once with a smile as big as a Texas sunrise. Who would have thought it?

Now it was too soon morning and, by rights, Nellie ought to be feeling like some kind of dead rat dragged in by an ambitious cat. Instead, she was bubbling with energy--a smile on her face not at all in keeping with the funeral morning of a long-time acquaintance and sometimes friend.

Shirley turned up early, a shine to her eyes that meant Abel had made good use of his time when he’d picked her up and driven her into town this morning.

As they worked to put together a pot of stew, Shirley, caught up in her own happiness, finally noticed Nellie’s. "What’s got you so chipper this morning?"

"Have you seen your daddy yet?" Nellie asked, trying for what might sound like a casual change of subject.

But Shirley wasn’t fooled. "He and Norman rode in with us to town." Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "Daddy’s helping Abel set up the tables at the church. He seemed a might perky this morning, too, now that I think on it. Is there something you’re not telling me, Miss Nellie?"

"It’s not my place to tell," Nellie said, primming her lips up as if they might start flapping all on their own.

And though Shirley badgered and teased her, Nellie restrained herself--and almost broke an arm patting herself on the back for her discretion.

But the cat was out of the bag when Abel and Judson showed up to help carry the bread and pies over to the church yard. For, while Abel made a beeline to Shirley and took her hand as if he just had to touch her or die from the yearning, Jud headed straight for Nellie and pressed a big kiss on her mouth. "Good morning, sweetheart," he murmured, then kissed her again.

"I thought I must have dreamed it," Nellie confessed in a whisper.

Jud put his arms around her. "Then we both did."

Over his shoulder, Nellie saw Shirley and Abel gaping like rustics in a big city. "You’d best say something," Nellie said into Jud’s ear.

"I love you," Jud said.

"To your daughter," Nellie said, though his words pleased her plenty.

"Oh." Jud turned, keeping Nellie anchored to him. "I love her," he said to Shirley. "I’m marrying her," he added for Abel’s benefit.

Nellie was almost afraid of what she might see on the faces of the young people. Would Abel laugh? Would Shirley be mad? But the pair of them were grinning like hound dogs at a butchering, and Shirley dragged Abel over so that hugs could be exchanged all around.

"It’s about time you got married, Miss Nellie," Abel said as he smacked a big kiss on her cheek. "What took you so long?"

"I was waiting for the right man," Nellie said with a smile at Jud, who smiled back a smile so tender it made her heart ache. "You--don’t mind?" she asked Shirley. "Me marrying your daddy?"

"Mind?" Shirley’s smile was a lot like her daddy’s. "Why, I’m pleased as punch, Miss Nellie." She beamed at Nellie and her father as if she’d orchestrated this all by herself.

"I know it’s sudden," Nellie said. "It caught me by surprise. But my Grandma Dayton used to say that for every pot there is a lid. And when the right lid comes along…"

Shirley grinned. "I know about pots, Miss Nellie. And lids." The girl slid a look at Abel, who was smiling down at her with his heart in his eyes.

Jud cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "Well. Norman and I will be moving into town. Nell thinks the two of you ought to have use of the cabin."

Shirley gasped. "The cabin? The cabin I love like it was my own family homestead?"

"The cabin you’ve worked hard to make a homey and welcoming place," Jud said firmly. "It won’t belong to you exactly, but Nell believes the owner won’t mind. She believes he isn’t ever coming back."

Nellie could see Abel was uneasy about something, and she made a guess. "You’re fretting about that, aren’t you, Abel?"

"Don’t want to look like I’m taking advantage," Abel confessed.

"You’ll remember Miss Phyllis Blakely?" Nellie asked.

"The school teacher," Abel said with a nod.

"You’ll know she married Bess’s brother-in-law," Nellie said, "and Bess is married to Benjamin, whose cabin it is. So I’ll just write to Phyllis and have her get permission from Benjamin. Will that ease your mind, Abel?"

Abel nodded.

"Good." Nellie grinned. "Now, much as I’ve enjoyed all this hugging and kissing and carrying on, we have a funeral to set up for. We’d best get busy. There’ll be time for more of that kind of thing later on."

Jud put an arm around her and gave her a squeeze. "I’m counting on it," he murmured into her ear.

Nellie’s face turned pink.

~ * ~

Milt Caldwell looked about like he’d been dragged through a knothole backwards, but that didn’t stop Cassie Loomis and Delilah Greenly from whispering behind their hands at the sight of him.

Nellie had a feeling Milt wasn’t going to turn tail and run, like Carlisle Applegate and Alex Roman had. No, he had the look of an old-fashioned martyr, who meant to stick it out while the town took to flagellating the guilt out of him, inch by painful inch. And that was a pity, for Milt Caldwell was a good man, despite the one act of weakness that had brought this grief down around his ears. She couldn’t blame him for loving Lillian Roman, could she? Hadn’t Eunice Caldwell practically shoved him in that direction, with her disapproving scowls and that tongue that strove to cut him off at the knees every time he turned around? Still, he’d wronged her. He’d broken solemn promises--and that’s what had led to this sun-bright day of burial.

Maybe good would come of it, Nellie thought doubtfully. Maybe somewhere down along the road. But she couldn’t see how.

Verna Louise Galway appeared happy at the news that Abel and Shirley would not be moving into the house behind the church. After all, there were six Galway children left, and the goal was to have them all out of the house and settled as soon as was humanly possible. Children were a blessing best enjoyed young. Once they started growing up, they tended to develop opinions, which marred the tranquility of a house where there was room for only one boss. And there was not a single Galway who didn’t know exactly who ruled the Galway roost. And it wasn’t the minister.

Norman was hanging on to Daniel Loomis’s words like the livery owner was the President himself. Hadn’t Mr. Loomis promised him a job? Wasn’t Norman going to get to breathe in that pungent aroma of horse forever after? And staying at Miss Nellie’s meant he was that much closer to the livery, so he could go over any time of the day or night. By golly, but Norman couldn’t be happier!

Gene Sherman was feeling as dry in the throat as a Texas dust storm this morning, and thinking wistfully of the secreted bottle of whiskey he’d just emptied into the dirt behind his place this very day. But the feel of his freshly laundered shirt gave him comfort, and the smile Inge Blum bestowed on him from time to time gave him the hope that his sacrifice was not made in vain.

As Maurice Galway droned on in his nasal tones about death and forgiveness in general, and Eunice Caldwell’s self-orchestrated journey to a better place in specific, the people of Williams Trace kept their faces arranged in sober lines. But their thoughts were buzzing like a swarm of bees on a hot summer afternoon. What did Nellie Farmer think she was doing with that Judson Deavers? And did Verna Louise Galway really mean to let her firstborn son marry a schoolgirl? And what kind of sheriff was Milt Caldwell when his own wife was allowed to shoot herself under his very nose? And hadn’t they known all along that the Bentleys were nothing but squatters? And when was the town going to get a new doctor? And, for that matter, a schoolmaster?

Life, despite recent tragedy, was going on--as life had a way of doing.

~ * ~

Abel and Shirley left Nellie’s place together. Norman was, of course, already over at the livery, doing what he could even with his arm still mending. As the door shut after them, Nellie turned to Jud with a smile that was flavored with a good dollop of shyness. "Well," she said, "here we are."

Jud crossed to her and gathered her into his arms. "And here we’ll stay."

"Just like this?" Nellie asked with a happy sigh as she laid her head against his shoulder.

"With a few variations," Jud promised. He had just bent his head to demonstrate one of them when there was a knock on the door. "Don’t answer it," he suggested, but Nellie had already pulled away.

She was sorry she had when she saw Cassie and Delilah at the door. Still, she kept her voice pleasant. "What can I do for you?"

"We just came to chat," Cassie said, peering past Nellie, who hadn’t stepped aside to let them enter. Cassie caught sight of Jud, who nodded a greeting. "But I see you have your hands full. You’re just full of good works, aren’t you, Nellie Farmer? Why, taking in this vagabond and his children is mighty Christian of you, and God is sure to reward you for your charity."

Delilah tittered.

"What do you need?" Nellie asked. Her voice was still even, but her blood was starting to boil. "Besides a healthy dose of decency and a lesson in good manners? The pair of you turn my stomach," she added in a mutter.

"And there’s a lot of it to turn," Delilah said unkindly.

Nellie opened her mouth to reply, but Jud was right behind her. "That’s not her stomach, ma’am," he said. "That’s her heart. Good day." And he closed the door right in their faces.

"Those cats!" Nellie said. "I’d like to give them a tongue-lashing they’ll never forget."

"But you won’t."

"I can’t promise I won’t. I’m just too old, Jud. I doubt I’ll ever learn to mind my tongue," Nellie said mournfully.

He drew her into his arms, loving the softness of her, and the substance. "Then I’ll mind it for you, Nell." He bent his head to hers and kissed her, long and thorough. "There’s ways to make it easier," he finally murmured against her mouth, "like giving it something else to do."

Nellie managed a chuckle. "I don’t think I’ve quite got the hang of that, Jud. Could you show me one more time?"

"Every day, ‘til the day that I die," he said, and kissed her again. "I promise."

"Promises are like piecrusts," Nellie reminded him when she could catch her breath.

"Not mine," Jud said. "Mine are like Mrs. Galway’s biscuits. Tough as boot leather and hard as a rock."

"Then I’ll take great pleasure in holding you to yours."

"Please do," Jud said formally.

Roberta Olsen Major wore out two toy typewriters as a child before her parents realized she needed the real thing. Throughout junior high and high school, she tapped out lurid, angst-filled stories peopled with impossibly beautiful characters speaking highly improbable dialogue.

Earning a BA from Brigham Young University, she worked for a time as a librarian in sensible shoes, before switching her Major to the care and feeding of a science-minded husband and two charming children.

A published playwright and reviewer of children’s books, she now lives in Texas, where she tap dances, collects dust, and is, as always, working on her next book.

Roberta loves to hear from her readers. Write to her at:

romajor@authorsden.com.