anyone would willingly do such a thing was unfathomable. Isabel went out of her way to remain above approach, to avoid the stinging whip of judgment. She’d had enough of that throughout her childhood.
He held up his hand in defense. “I’ve made no secret of my decision to remain a bachelor. Everyone in this town from the age of sixteen to ninety-five is aware of my no-marriage policy. I’m not to blame if a girl chooses to believe she can change me.”
“Such arrogance and flippant disregard for others’ feelings! What would cause a man to go around kissing innocent women, I wonder, leading them on a merry dance that will only end in heartache?”
“Hold on, sugarplum.” His laconic smile remained fixed, but his eyes glittered righteous fire. “Who said anything about kissing? That’s crossing the line of friendship, something I would never do. That sort of behavior is reserved for serious romance.”
“That’s something, I suppose,” she huffed, slapping a single mug on the counter.
“I was referring to a situation in Georgia. A scandal not of my making. It’s the reason I ultimately found my way here.”
She stirred the steaming water and coffee grounds together. “Let me guess, you trifled with the wrong girl, and her father ran you out of town.”
Ben actually looked disappointed. His gaze rested on the mug then lifted to her face. “You have me pegged. Sure, that’s exactly what happened.”
He pivoted on his boot heel and headed for the door. “Thanks for patching me up.”
Ignoring a pinch of guilt, she trailed after him. “You’re going home, correct? Or the bank?”
“I won’t stay here tonight,” he said, his tone flat. “But I will be stopping by at odd times the next few days. Be alert to any suspicious activity. You know where to find me if you need me.”
“I won’t.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
Isabel couldn’t shake the memories. The events outside the bank crowded in...the terror of the gun digging in her temple, the relief mixed with dread at seeing Ben at the end of that alley, more grave than she’d ever seen him. He’d looked like a lethal punisher of misdeeds as opposed to the usual congenial lothario.
You could’ve offered him coffee.
Isabel scowled as she carried a stack of one-pound sacks to the platform built around the millstones. She’d let her disdain for his reputation take precedence over common courtesy. The events to which he’d referred—his supposed brush with scandal—had grown into a perplexing mystery that had kept her awake. If his reasons for leaving Georgia hadn’t involved a brokenhearted maiden and an irate father intent on revenge, what were they?
None of your business, Isabel. Your paths intersecting last night was a single event. No need to continue interacting with the troublesome man. Or letting thoughts of him prevent you from getting a good night’s rest.
Her eyes felt gritty, her mind not as sharp as usual. She’d been operating their gristmill for so long she could do it in her sleep. Open every Friday and Saturday, the hours usually passed in a blur. Today she found little comfort in the familiar water wheel’s whir and the muted grinding of the gears beneath the floor.
She was building a fire in the woodstove when Honor entered the mill, eyes bright and determined. This didn’t bode well. The nineteen-year-old usually didn’t make an appearance until lunch.
“Something the matter?”
Her long, wavy hair constrained with a bright red ribbon, she approached with a mug held out as an offering. “I’ve brought you hot cocoa.”
Isabel brushed the wood bits from her hands. “What’s the special occasion?”
“I thought you might need a bit of cheering up this morning. Not only was your life threatened, you were forced to spend time with the deputy.”
Accepting the mug, Isabel sipped the somewhat bitter chocolate concoction and sighed in satisfaction. She didn’t have the heart to scold her sister for dipping into their stores of the costly ingredient. Honor was attuned to others’ feelings. It’s why she was more concerned with lifting Isabel’s spirits than the household finances.
“It’s delicious.” She dredged up a smile. “Thank you.”
Honor claimed the lone chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Ben’s a nice man, isn’t he? There’s no question he’s as handsome as the day is long, but he’s also got good character, don’t you think? Does the fact he saved your life soften your opinion of him?”
“Your lack of subtlety amazes me.” Drifting to the window that overlooked the homestead and their beloved mountains, she surveyed the wintry scene. “Just because you’ve found happiness with John doesn’t mean everyone else must be in a relationship.”
“I can’t understand why you refuse to give any man a chance. Not everyone is like Papa.”
“Repeating this conversation every few months won’t change my view of the opposite sex. At their core, men are self-serving creatures. Why on earth would I subject myself to one?”
She would never be like her mother, who’d endured Manuel’s indignities in silence. Alma’s refusal to stand up for herself had formed a wedge between mother and daughter. How she could’ve lamented his passing was beyond Isabel.
Her sister’s nose scrunched like a child’s, dispelling her usual air of tranquility. “You’re being unfair. And cynical.”
“I’m realistic.”
The first customer of the day arrived then, putting an end to the pointless exchange. Her sisters wouldn’t succeed in convincing her to risk her independence on the slim chance she’d meet a man who’d treat her as a respected partner. As more customers filed in, a majority of them men, Isabel overheard countless conversations about the attempted bank robbery and how Ben’s heroic actions had netted him even more female admirers. Hoping her disgust was well hidden, she took their corn and, after removing a one-eighth portion for herself, loaded the top hopper and waited for the fine meal to appear.
She kept expecting someone to interrogate her. The way they talked, she hadn’t even been present! Resentment burned in her chest. Irrational, she knew, but wasn’t it just like a man to take all the credit?
By midafternoon, her temper had reached a high simmer. The arrival of brothers Myron and Chester Gallatin—bullies, both of them—only inflamed her unhappy mood.
The men’s father, Sal Gallatin, owned the lumberyard. They’d spent their whole lives working there and were built like stone mountains. Their nasty dispositions made them ugly.
“You thinking what I’m thinking, Chester?” Leering at Isabel, Myron elbowed his brother’s ribs.
“What’s that?”
“I’m
