here?” he asked.
Isabelle glanced up at the shotgun over the door and Jenny shook her head, then brushed her mouth with a linen napkin. “No, there’s Isabelle’s husband and their two sons. They’re working in the hayfield. And you’ve seen my son.”
He nodded, chewing long and hard on the crust of bread he’d chosen, then bent to his dinner once more.
“Do you think my boy looks like Carl?” she asked after a moment. “His folks are gone, over three years now, but his mama said Marshall was the image of his daddy.”
“Hard to say,” Shay temporized.
“Carl had the same brown eyes. But then you know that. Having seen him more recently than I. Mine are blue.” She paused for a moment, but the words would not be halted, falling from her lips as if she must somehow reinforce Carl’s memory through the small child he’d left behind. “Marshall’s hair is streaked from the sunshine now, I know. But you should see it in the winter. It darkens up, without a trace of red in it like—” Jenny hesitated, aware of rambling on. She lifted her cup and sipped at the bitter stuff. Her heart was stuttering in her chest, and she felt her throat close as she asked the question she’d held within her heart for the past half hour.
“How did he die?” Her hands fluttered, then settled in her lap. “Did he suffer long? Was there a doctor in the camp?” She looked up at him and winced at the forbidding look he wore. “Please, Mr. Shay.”
The woman was trembling, her mouth twitching at the corner, her chin wobbling. Damn, she was about to cry again, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. Enough that he’d put this visit in limbo for so long, now he had to dredge up all the memories and break her heart all over again.
“There were a couple of doctors in camp, but we tried not to let the Union army know who they were. They’d have been taken out and put to work in the army hospital for the northern troops.” He shrugged, curling long fingers around his cup. “There wasn’t any medicine anyway, ma’am. We all just did the best we could.”
“You said you were with him?” she asked, biting at her lip. “He spoke of us?”
“Yes, ma’am. I told you he sent his love, to both you and the child.” That hadn’t been exactly how it happened, but instinct told him she would be soothed by the words. Her eyes filled with tears and they overflowed, dampening the bodice of her dress as they fell. His gaze rested there.
“Mr. Shay?” Her hand lay on the table now, reaching for him, yet even as he watched, her fingers curled into a fist. “Did he say anything else?”
He shook his head. Take care of them. The words that haunted his dreams had brought him here, on a roundabout route, to be sure. But here he was, and here he’d stay until he was sure she was safe, had enough to eat, and that the boy was taken care of, had some sort of future in the offing.
“Have you got any crops in, ma’am?” he asked. “Is there any livestock in the pastures?”
“The kitchen garden’s planted, of course, and it’s almost time to plant corn, maybe next week or the week after. After the hay gets put up. We’ve a cow in the barn, and a good flock of chickens. There’s three hens setting on nests. We’ll have chicks soon, and fryers in a couple of months.”
“Horses?” he asked.
“A team of mules. They’re in the corral, waiting for me to take them back to the hay field later on. And a mare to pull the buggy.”
“Nothing to ride?”
“No, the Yanks took most of the horseflesh hereabouts with them when they passed through. We were lucky to keep what we did. Noah and the boys hid the animals in the woods. We penned up the chickens in the root cellar and put a washtub over the door when the army came through. I thought they were going to burn the place, but—” She hesitated and glanced at Isabelle, whose mouth shut reprovingly.
“They left us alone, and went on without torching the house and barn.” Beneath the freckles dotting her cheeks, Jenny’s face was pale and her gaze focused steadily on the tabletop between them.
His instincts told him she’d left much unsaid. Her hired help, or whatever relationship the woman had to Jenny, was keeping secrets, as was the girl across the table from him. She wasn’t much more than a girl, yet she’d borne up beneath the load she’d been called to carry, and borne up well. Her dress was ill-fitting, tight across the bodice, as if it had fit a younger, more slender female. Well-worn, and washed until the faint pattern of flowers had submitted their color to soap and water, it looked on the verge of being fit for the ragbag.
Yet, she wore it well, and he had a fleeting glimpse of what it must have looked like, years ago when both dress and woman had been untouched by the desolation of the war.
Jenny looked up at him, her dignity once more in place, only damp spots on her dress remaining of the tears she’d shed for the memory of her husband. “Will you stay the night?” she asked politely.
“I can sleep in the barn.” He glanced out the window to where the shabby outbuildings were drenched in sunshine. “I have a bedroll, ma’am. Is there hay left in the loft?”
“No, but there will be in a couple of days, once it dries in the field. The men are out there cutting it now.”
“Can I give them a hand? I’ve done my share of swinging a scythe in my day.”
“And where was that?” she asked, her eyes lighting with interest.
“I was born and raised here in the south, ma’am.” And that would be enough for now, he decided, rising and reaching for his hat. “I’ll just ride my horse out to where the men are, and put in a few hours’ work. Maybe I’ll do enough to earn my supper.”
“Wait,” Jenny said quickly. “I’ll take you out in the wagon. Noah won’t know who you are.”
“I’ll tell him,” Shay said politely. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”
And it was. Coming upon the three men, their heads covered with straw hats, their arms swinging in unison to the mournful notes they sang, he’d sat astride his stallion for long minutes. One of the younger men had noticed him first, glancing up, and then halting midswing. The older man, Noah probably, turned to face him, taking his hat off and nodding slowly.
“Sir?” The tone was polite, yet wary, and Shay slid from his horse. A hundred feet or so separated them, and his steps were unhurried as he watched the three men.
“I’m here to help,” he said. “Carl Pennington sent me.”
A visible shiver went through the shortest of the three men, and he turned quickly to the eldest of the group. “Pa?”
Noah stepped forward. “You knew Mr. Carl? In the army?”
Shay nodded. “I was with him when he died.”
Noah looked him over well, his shoulders straightening, his head erect. “Took you long enough to get here, I’d say, mister.”
Shay nodded his agreement. There was no arguing that point. “I’m here now.”
“You wanta use the scythe or start
