Her Captain's Heart. Lyn Cote

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      Men often shed their shirts while working in the fields, but he’d sat with them in the parlor shirtless and barefoot. And she couldn’t help but notice that Matthew was a fine-looking man. She blocked her mind from bringing up his likeness again. Her deep loneliness, the loneliness she admitted only to the Lord, no doubt prompted this reaction.

      As if Joseph had read a bit of her thoughts, he said, “Ritter is probably more comfortable in the company of men. You know, after four long years of army life.”

      No doubt. She willed away the memory of Matthew Ritter in dishabille. “He might be sending the telegram, but we don’t know what the answer will be. Or when it might come.” She tried to also dismiss just how completely unwelcoming Matthew Ritter had been. And how blunt. “And we need food because, after all, we’re here.” And we can’t go back.

      Joseph grunted in agreement. “Well, I’m going to do some work in the barn. This place must have sat empty for quite some time. The paddock fence needs repairs before I dare let the horses out.”

      Verity rose, forcing herself to face going into a town of strangers. After Matthew’s dark forebodings last night, all her own misgivings had flocked to the surface, pecking and squawking like startled chickens. If we’re on the same side, he shouldn’t be discouraging me. How will we accomplish anything if we remain at cross-purposes?

      “Joseph, I’m going to walk to the store and see about buying some food. We’ll eat our main meal at midday as usual. I’m sure I’ll be able to get what I need to put something simple on the table.” I can do that. This is a state of the Union again. No matter what Matthew said, I will not be afraid of Fiddlers Grove.

      With a nod, Joseph rose. “Little Beth, you going with me or your mom?”

      “I want to help in the barn,” Beth said, popping up from the table. “May I, Mother?”

      “Certainly,” Verity said. Better you should stay here, my sweet girl. I don’t want you hurt or frightened. Again. Last night Matthew’s harsh words had caused Beth to run to her. She shivered.

      I will not be afraid. Not until I have good reason to be.

      

      With her oak basket over one arm, Verity marched down the dusty road into town. Fiddlers Grove boasted only a group of peeling houses with sagging roofs, two churches and a general store. With the general store looming dead ahead, her feet slowed, growing heavier, clumsier, as if she were treading ankle-deep through thick mud. This town was going to be her home for at least a year. Starting today. Lord, help me make a good first impression.

      On the bench by the general store’s door lounged some older men with unshaven, dried-apple faces. Matthew’s warning that some here would welcome her death made her quiver, but she inhaled and then smiled at them.

      Grime coated the storefront windows with a fine film and the door stood propped open. Flies buzzed in and out. Her pulse hopping and skipping, Verity nodded at the older men who’d risen respectfully as she passed them. She crossed the threshold.

      A marked hush fell over the store. Every eye turned to her. Drawing in as much air as she could, Verity walked like a stick figure toward the counter. The townspeople fell back, leaving her alone in the center of the sad and bare-looking store. She halted, unable to go forward.

      She began silently reciting the twenty-third psalm, an old habit in the midst of stress. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.

      Near the counter, a slight woman in a frayed bonnet and patched dress edged away from Verity, joining the surrounding gawkers. Verity tried to act naturally, letting everyone stare at her as if she hadn’t fastened her buttons correctly.

      She forced her legs to carry her forward. “Good morning,” she greeted the proprietor. Her voice trembled, giving her away.

      The thin, graying man behind the counter straightened. “Good day, ma’am. I’m Phil Hanley, the storekeeper. What may I do for you?”

      She acknowledged his introduction with a wobbly nod, intense gazes still pressing in on her from all sides. Her smile felt tight and false, like the grin stitched on a rag doll’s face.

      “Phil Hanley, I’m Verity Hardy and I need some of those eggs.” She indicated a box of brown eggs on the counter. “And, if thee have any, some bacon. And I need to ask thee who sells milk in town. I require at least two quarts a day. And I’m out of bread. I’ll need to set up my kitchen before I begin baking bread again.” Her words had spilled out in a rapid stream, faster than usual.

      In the total silence that followed, the man stared at her as if she’d been speaking a foreign language. People who weren’t used to Plain Speech often did this, she told herself. They would soon grow accustomed—if she and her family stayed here longer than Matthew hoped.

      She waited, perspiring. As the silence continued, Verity blotted her upper lip with a handkerchief from her apron pocket. More of the twenty-third psalm played in her mind. For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.

      “Ma’am.” A slight, pinched-looking woman edged nearer and offered in a hesitant voice, “I just baked this mornin’. I have a spare pan of cornbread.”

      With a giddy rush of gratitude, Verity turned toward the woman. “Thank thee. I’m Verity Hardy. And thee is?”

      “Mary. I mean, Mrs. Orrin Dyke, ma’am.” Mary curtsied.

      “I’m pleased to meet thee.” Verity offered her hand like a man instead of curtsying like a woman, knowing this would also brand her as an oddity. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

      Mary Dyke shook her hand tentatively.

      “Mary Dyke, I’m living at the Barnesworth house. Could thee drop by with that cornbread later this morning?”

      “Yes, ma’am. I can do that,” Mary said with a shy blush, curtsying again.

      Verity reached into her pocket and then held out a coin. “Here. I’ll pay thee in advance.”

      “No.” Mary backed away, one ungloved hand up. “You just give the money to Mr. Hanley to put on my account. I’ll bring the bread over right away. ’Sides, that’s way too much for a pan of bread. I couldn’t take more than a nickel.”

      Sensing a stiffening in the people surrounding her, Verity wondered how she’d given offense. Still, she held out the dime, her mind racing as she tried to come up with a way to make her offer acceptable. “But I’ll owe thee for delivery, too.”

      “No, no, ma’am, I can’t take anything for bringing it. Or in advance.” Mary scurried from the store.

      Verity appeared to have offended the woman by offering to pay too much and in advance. But what could she do to amend that here and now? Nothing. Her mind went back to the psalm. He restoreth my soul. Yes, please, Lord, she thought. She took a deep breath and said through dry lips that were trying to stick together, “Two dozen of those fine brown eggs, please, Phil Hanley?”

      “Of course.” He set the offered oak basket on the counter and carefully wrapped the eggs in newspaper, nestling them into it. His movements provided the only sound in the store СКАЧАТЬ