tell me thee brought a gun, Joseph.”
Matt spoke over her. “Where’s the gun?”
The older man came toward him. “It’s under the seat on the buckboard, covered with canvas. I wanted it handy if needed.”
“Maybe you should go get it now.” Matt motioned with his rifle toward the front door. “I’ll come out and cover you. And stick to the shadows, but make sure the gun’s visible and be sure they hear you checking to see that it’s loaded.”
Verity stood up quickly. “Wait. Who does thee think is watching us?”
Matt shrugged. “Maybe no one, but I keep seeing shadows shifting outside. And your horses are restless.”
“That could be just the wind and the branches,” she protested. “I don’t want rifles in my house.”
“This isn’t your house,” Matt said, following Joseph to the door. “And some of the Rebs here haven’t surrendered. We’re from the North and they don’t want us here.”
She followed them, still balking, “I didn’t expect it would be a welcome with open arms—”
He didn’t listen to the rest. He shut the front door, closing her inside, and gave cover to Joseph, who collected his gun, making a show of checking to see that it was loaded.
When they reentered the house, the widow stood there with hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. “We don’t need guns. We are here to bring healing and hope to this town.”
“No, we’re not.” His patience went up in flames. “We are here to bring change, to stir up trouble. We’ve come to make people here choke down emancipation and the educating of blacks. The very things they were willing to die to prevent. We’ve brought a sword, not an olive branch. If you think different, just turn around and leave. No white person is going to want us here. Many will be more than willing to run us out of town. And if they could get away with it, a few would put us under sod in the local churchyard.”
His words brought a shocked silence. Then the little girl ran to her mother and buried her face in her mother’s skirts. Mrs. Hardy cast him a reproving look and began stroking her daughter’s head. Ashamed of upsetting the child, Matt closed and locked the door. Maybe he had been imagining something or someone lurking outside. But he’d survived the war by learning to distrust everything. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…scare her.”
“You only spoke the truth,” Joseph said. “Christ said He came to bring a sword, not peace. And you knew that, Verity. We discussed it.”
“But guns, Joseph,” she said in a mournful tone, her voice catching. “The war is over.”
Her sad tone stung Matt even more than the little girl’s fear. “Why don’t we discuss this in the morning?” he said gruffly.
The little girl peered out from her mother’s skirts. And then yawned.
Right. Time for bed. A perfect excuse to end the conversation. “It’s late,” Matt said. “Why don’t we just get you settled for the night—”
“But how can we if you’re here?” The woman actually blushed.
The solution came to him in a flash. “There is a former slave cabin back by the barn. I’ll stay there until this is sorted out. That should fulfill propriety until one of us is moved to another town. We could just take meals together in the house till then. I plan to hire a housekeeper.” He felt relief wash over him. He’d keep his privacy and she’d probably get a quick transfer to a more sensible post.
Verity and her father-in-law traded glances. “Are thee sure thee won’t mind?” she asked in a way that told him she wasn’t just being polite.
He shrugged. “I lived in tents through the whole war.” Images of miserably muddy, bone-chilling nights and cold rain trickling down his neck tried to take him back. He pushed the images and foul sensations aside. “Don’t worry about me. The cabin’s built solid and has a fireplace. I’ll be fine.”
“You served in the Union Army, then?” she asked solemnly.
He nodded, giving no expression or comment. I won’t talk about it.
“My husband served in the Army of the Potomac.”
Silence. Matt stared at them, refusing to discuss the war. It’s over. We won. That’s all that matters.
Again, her eyes spoke of her character. Their intensity told him she took very little about this situation lightly. She inhaled deeply, breaking the pregnant moment. “Then we have a workable solution. For now. And tomorrow we’ll compose that telegram to the Bureau about this situation. Will thee help us bring in our bedding?”
“Certainly.” He moved toward the door, thinking that he didn’t like the part about them penning the message together. I’m quite capable of writing a telegram, ma’am.
Out in the moonlight, they headed toward the buckboard. Mrs. Hardy walked beside Matt, the top of her head level with his shoulder. She carried herself well. But she kept frowning down at the rifle he carried. And he in turn found his eyes drifting toward hers. “Let’s get started carrying your things in, ma’am.”
Verity looked up into Matt’s eyes. “Thank thee for thy help. I’m sorry we woke thee up and startled thee.”
Her direct gaze disrupted his peace. But he found he couldn’t look away. There was some quality about her that made him feel…He couldn’t come up with the word. He stepped back from her, unhappy with himself. “No apology necessary.”
Laying his rifle on the buckboard within easy reach, Matt began helping Joseph untie and roll back the canvas that had protected the boxes and trunks roped securely together on the buckboard.
Maybe this would all be for the best. Maybe he, too, should ask for a transfer in that telegram. It would be wiser. Then he could leave town before Dace and he even came face-to-face. Blood was the tie that had bound them once. But now it was blood spilled in the war that separated them.
His thoughts were interrupted by the gentle sound of Mrs. Hardy sharing a quiet laugh with her daughter. The nearby leaves rustled with the wind and he nearly reached for his rifle. But it was just the wind, wasn’t it?
Unsettled. That was the word he’d been looking for. Mrs. Hardy made him feel unsettled. And he didn’t like it one bit.
Chapter Two
In the dingy and unfamiliar kitchen, Verity sat at the battered wood table. Her elbows on the bare wood, she gnawed off a chunk of tasteless hardtack. Trying not to gag, she sipped hot black coffee, hoping the liquid would soften the rock in her mouth. Her daughter was too well-behaved to pout about the pitiful breakfast, but her downcast face said it all. Their first breakfast in Fiddlers Grove pretty much expressed their state of affairs—and Verity’s feelings about it.
She leaned her forehead against the back of her hand. The house had looked more inviting in moonlight. Gloom crawled up her nape like winding, choking vines. And yet she couldn’t keep her disobedient mind from calling up images from the night before—a strong tanned hand gripping a rifle, a broad shoulder sculpted by moonlight.
She
