an old friend who was now probably an enemy?
When the mess had been cleaned up, he took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry I startled you, Mary.” He wondered for a moment if she would try to act as if she didn’t know him.
Mary turned toward him, but looked at the floor. “That’s all right, Matt. I just didn’t expect to see you here. Someone said they thought they’d seen you, but…”
A strained silence stretched between them. A string of odd reactions hit him—his throat was thick, his eyes smarted, he felt hot and then cold. To break the unbearable silence, he nodded toward her simple gold wedding band. “You’re married, I see.”
She still wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Yes, I married Orrin Dyke. We have one son, Alec.”
Orrin Dyke? Sweet Mary McKay had married that shiftless oaf, Matt hoped his low opinion of her husband didn’t show on his face. He forced words through his dry throat, “I’m happy to hear that.”
Mary looked up then. “Are you…Have you come home for good?”
Home for good? The thought sliced like a bayonet. He grimaced. “Probably not. I doubt I’ll be welcome here.” He made himself go on and tell the truth, the whole truth. “I’m working for the Freedman’s Bureau. I’m here to help former slaves adjust to freedom and prepare them to vote.”
Mary simply stared at him.
He’d expected his job to be offensive to his old friends, but he was who he was.
The Quaker widow watched them in silence. Her copper hair and air of confidence contrasted sharply with Mary’s meek and shabby appearance. Meeting Mary after all these years was hard enough without the widow taking in every word, every expression. His face and neck warmed—he hated betraying his strong reaction to the situation.
“Your parents?” Mary asked.
He swallowed down the gorge that had risen in his throat. “My parents died during the war.”
“I’m sorry.” And Mary did sound sorry.
“Your parents?” he asked, wishing the widow would excuse herself and leave them. But of course, it would be almost improper for her to do so.
“My mother died, but Pa’s still alive. It’s good to see you again, Matt, safe and sound after the war.”
He imagined all the prickly thoughts that might be coursing through Mary’s mind about his fighting on the Union side and the reason his family had left town in 1852. Just thinking of leaving Fiddlers Grove brought back the same sinking feeling it had that day in 1852—as if the floor had opened and was swallowing him inch by inch.
Mary turned to the widow. “Ma’am, I must be leaving.”
“Of course, Mary Dyke, I thank thee for thy help.” The widow shook Mary’s hand as if she were a man.
Matt held on to his composure as he bowed, wishing Mary goodbye.
Mary curtsied and then she was out the back door, calling, “Alec!” Her son, Orrin’s son.
That left him alone with the widow as they faced each other in the kitchen. Again, he was struck by her unruly copper curls, which didn’t fit her serene yet concerned expression. He wanted to turn and leave. But of course, he had to deal with her. He took himself in hand. I faced cannon so I can face this inquisitive woman and my hometown where I won’t be welcome.
She went to the stove and lifted the coffeepot there. “Would thee like a cup?”
He wanted to refuse and leave, but he was thirsty and they needed to talk. He hoped she didn’t make good coffee. He didn’t want to like anything about this woman. He forced out a gruff “Please.”
She motioned him to sit at the table and served him the coffee. Then she sat down facing him. “I take it that thee went to send the telegram about our situation?”
He’d braced himself for her expected interrogation. “Yes, I did, and I bought some chickens for the yard and a cow for milk.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m surprised that thee made these purchases. Thee sounded last night as if thee didn’t think my family and I would be here long enough to merit the purchase of any stock.”
He sipped the hot coffee. It was irritatingly good. “I’ll be here long enough to do what I signed on to do.” That much he’d decided on his ride to send the telegram. “And whether you’re here or not, I’ll need eggs and milk. We need to hire a housekeeper. Would you do that? Hire her?”
The woman considered him for a few moments. “I could do that. But perhaps I should just do the housekeeping until I start teaching.”
He shook his head. He didn’t want this woman to become someone he’d come to depend on. With any luck, she’d be gone soon. “When you’re busy teaching, it would be better to have household help.” It wasn’t shading the truth, since the decision as to whether she would stay or go was not up to him. After all, he might end up stuck with this woman indefinitely. With her early arrival the Freedman’s Bureau had demonstrated that it could make mistakes.
“Very well. I’ll see about hiring a housekeeper.”
He sipped more of her good coffee, brooding over all he couldn’t change in the situation. After four years of following orders, he’d wanted to be free, on his own. And then here she was. And then the question he dreaded came.
“Thee didn’t tell me that thee had ever lived here before.”
Yes, I didn’t, and I don’t want to tell you now. “I lived here with my parents until I was around twelve. Then we moved to New York State.” And that’s all you need to know.
“I see.”
Was she too polite to ask why? He waited. Evidently she was. Good. Feeling suddenly freer, he rose. “I’m going out to settle the stock. I see your father-in-law is already working on that fence that needed fixing.”
“Yes, Joseph is very handy to have around. When it’s time for dinner, I’ll ring the bell. I bought only bacon, eggs and cornbread, so the menu will be somewhat limited. But soon I’ll have the kitchen completely stocked, and with a cow and some chickens, we’ll only need to buy meat and greens from a local farmer.”
Matt nodded and walked outside into the hot sunshine. As he stood there, the muscles in his neck tightened. He remembered the look on Mary’s face when she’d recognized him. Well, the fat would sizzle soon. Word that he was indeed back in town would whip through Fiddlers Grove like a tornado. It couldn’t be avoided. But he’d given his word and he’d stand by it.
The concerned look the widow had given him poured acid on his already lacerated nerves. He wanted no sympathy—just to do his work and move on. Oh, he hoped that telegram would come soon. He wanted this disturbing Quaker widow anywhere but here.
Later that afternoon, Verity was putting the final touches on the freshly hemmed and pressed white kitchen curtains she’d had sense enough to bring. When someone knocked on her back door, she started. Scolding herself for lingering jitters, she
