Lonnie nodded, but kept his eyes on the dying flames of the fire. “Want me to wash the dishes?”
“We’ll do them together.” He filled the basin with hot water from the fire and Lonnie grabbed a towel. The few dishes were soon done.
“What are you going to do while I see Cora?” Wyatt asked. He must talk to her but didn’t care for leaving Lonnie alone.
“Guess I’ll watch Fanny. Maybe she’ll have her foal tonight.” Worry lined his forehead. “What if she foals while you’re gone? Something might go wrong.”
“I expect she’ll be fine, so don’t worry.”
“But what if—”
“You go up and find Mr. Bell. He’ll know what to do.”
Lonnie rocked his head back and forth.
Wyatt grabbed his chin to stop the movement. “Would you let your choices hurt Fanny and her baby?” He waited as Lonnie considered the question.
“Guess I wouldn’t.”
He released Lonnie’s chin. “I knew you wouldn’t, but kind of figured you needed to know it, too.”
Lonnie snorted but a smile tugged at his lips and Wyatt knew he’d gained a small victory. He almost wished Fanny would foal while he was out walking with Cora so Lonnie would go to Mr. Bell for help. Wouldn’t that be a giant step forward for his brother?
“I’ll see you later.”
Wyatt climbed the hill and leaned against the corner post of the garden fence to wait for Cora. The scent of flowers wafted through the air on a gentle breeze. Birds sang and scolded from the trees and fence lines. Grub wandered over and flopped down at Wyatt’s feet. He scratched behind the dog’s ears and earned a moist lick of Grub’s tongue.
The dog equivalent of thanks.
Wyatt filled his lungs to capacity with the warm, sweet air. If only life could be like this always.
The screen door squawked open and Cora stepped out. She glanced around until she found him. The air between them shimmered with tension. She would demand answers. He must say only enough to satisfy her questions. At all costs, he must protect their secret.
She smiled, and the tightness in his chest eased.
He continued to lounge back as she crossed the yard toward him. All day, as they’d worked on the barn, she had worn a floppy straw hat. Now her head was bare. The sun shone on her hair, making it shine like gold. Each stride she took said she knew who she was. Moreover, she liked who she was and was confident of her place in the world.
He wished he could share that feeling.
As she approached, her smile never faltered. Her eyes said she had purpose.
He knew all too well what that purpose was. And he meant to delay the moment as long as he could. He pushed away from the fence post that had been his support for the past fifteen minutes and smiled at her. He was glad of her company despite the reason for it.
“Let’s walk,” she said.
His smile deepened. Maybe she wasn’t any more anxious for the moment of truth than he.
He fell in at her side and they made their way to the river and turned to the left to walk along the bank.
“The wildflowers are so bountiful this time of year. I love the summer flowers.” She pointed out a patch of brown-eyed Susans and bluebonnets. “There’s some balsamroot. Ma uses the root to make a tonic and cough medicine.”
Content to let her talk and simply enjoy the evening, he turned toward some flowers. “Does your ma use these for anything?”
She squatted by the patch of flowers, touching the blossoms gently. As she lifted her face to him, a smile filled her eyes. “Yes, she does.” Cora straightened. “Every year, when the brown-eyed Susans—or, as she prefers to call them, black-eyed Susans—are at their best, she fills a jug with the blossoms and puts it in the middle of the table.” She looked into the distance, the soft smile still on her lips. “And she repeats a poem about the black-eyed Susan who was a woman. Her sweet William was sailing away and she feared he would forget her. He said she would be present wherever he went. Her eyes would be seen in the diamonds they found, her breath would be sweeter than any spices and her skin prettier than any ivory. Every beautiful object he saw would remind him of his pretty Susan.” She drew in a slow breath. “It’s a lovely poem.” She shrugged. “Now you’ll think me a romantic, and I’m not.”
“What would be wrong if you were?” She’d certainly sent his mind on a lovely romantic journey. Oh, that he could promise some sweet Susan such fidelity. His heart hurt at the knowledge that the best he could offer any Susan was to protect her from sharing the shame of his past. For, although he’d done nothing wrong, he’d learned people only saw the fact that he’d spent time in jail.
She laughed, a merry little sound. “I’m Cora, the practical sister.” She turned her steps back to the riverbank. “I take care of business.”
“Because you have to or because you want to?”
She stopped dead and turned to face him squarely. “Why, both, of course.”
“You mean your sisters or your ma or pa couldn’t look after business if you didn’t?” He didn’t know why it mattered one way or the other to him, but for some reason it did. Perhaps because he felt as if she was creating a prison for herself—one with no walls or bars or guards except of her own making. And jails, real or otherwise, were not pleasant places.
She shrugged. “I suppose they could, but they don’t have to. Come this way. Shh.” She pressed her finger to her lips as she tiptoed toward a swampy area. “I like watching the baby ducklings.” She plopped down as if prepared to stay awhile.
He sank to the ground beside her. He’d been dreading this walk and the talk that was to accompany it. But sitting by the slough and watching birds was fine with him.
The mother duck had flapped the ducklings into hiding in the reeds at their approach, but as they sat quietly, the little family soon emerged and resumed looking for food.
He realized Cora had shifted her attention from the birds to him and studied him intently. Slowly he brought his gaze to hers. The moment had come, and he drew in a deep, steadying breath.
“I want to know why Lonnie is so afraid,” she said, her voice soft, as if she thought he might react the way Lonnie had.
He’d considered how to answer, had even rehearsed what he’d say, but now it didn’t feel right, so he stared at the water before them and tried to shepherd his thoughts into order.
“The reason he acted like that was because you said not all fathers are like your pa. He knows too well the truth of those words.” Wyatt slowly returned his eyes to her, wanting to see her reaction, assess her response.
Her brown eyes softened and he drew in courage at the thought that she was sympathetic.
“My father beat us regularly.” He recalled
