but there is no reason for guns. Her throat rebelled at swallowing more of the gummy slurry. She gagged, trying to hide it from Beth.
Joseph came in the back door. “Ritter isn’t in the cabin out back.” He sat down and made a face at the hardtack on the plate and the cup of black coffee. Joseph liked bacon, eggs and buttered toast for breakfast, and a lot of cream in his coffee. “Slim pickings, I see.”
She sipped more hot coffee and choked down the last of the hardtack. “Yes, I’m going to have to find a farmer and get milk and egg delivery set up. Or perhaps that store in town stocks perishables.”
“Do you think we’re going to be here long enough to merit that?” Joseph asked. “I’m pretty sure Ritter has gone to the next town to send that telegram.”
At the mention of Matthew Ritter, Verity’s heart lurched. She looked away, smoothing back the stray hair around her face. Last night when Matthew had opened the door, shirtless and toting a rifle, she hadn’t known which shocked her more: his lack of proper dress or the rifle. Of course, they had surprised him after he’d turned in for the night. But he hadn’t excused himself and gone to don a shirt or comb his dark hair.
Men often shed their shirts while working in the fields, but he’d sat with them in the parlor shirtless and barefoot. And she couldn’t help but notice that Matthew was a fine-looking man. She blocked her mind from bringing up his likeness again. Her deep loneliness, the loneliness she admitted only to the Lord, no doubt prompted this reaction.
As if Joseph had read a bit of her thoughts, he said, “Ritter is probably more comfortable in the company of men. You know, after four long years of army life.”
No doubt. She willed away the memory of Matthew Ritter in dishabille. “He might be sending the telegram, but we don’t know what the answer will be. Or when it might come.” She tried to also dismiss just how completely unwelcoming Matthew Ritter had been. And how blunt. “And we need food because, after all, we’re here.” And we can’t go back.
Joseph grunted in agreement. “Well, I’m going to do some work in the barn. This place must have sat empty for quite some time. The paddock fence needs repairs before I dare let the horses out.”
Verity rose, forcing herself to face going into a town of strangers. After Matthew’s dark forebodings last night, all her own misgivings had flocked to the surface, pecking and squawking like startled chickens. If we’re on the same side, he shouldn’t be discouraging me. How will we accomplish anything if we remain at cross-purposes?
“Joseph, I’m going to walk to the store and see about buying some food. We’ll eat our main meal at midday as usual. I’m sure I’ll be able to get what I need to put something simple on the table.” I can do that. This is a state of the Union again. No matter what Matthew said, I will not be afraid of Fiddlers Grove.
With a nod, Joseph rose. “Little Beth, you going with me or your mom?”
“I want to help in the barn,” Beth said, popping up from the table. “May I, Mother?”
“Certainly,” Verity said. Better you should stay here, my sweet girl. I don’t want you hurt or frightened. Again. Last night Matthew’s harsh words had caused Beth to run to her. She shivered.
I will not be afraid. Not until I have good reason to be.
With her oak basket over one arm, Verity marched down the dusty road into town. Fiddlers Grove boasted only a group of peeling houses with sagging roofs, two churches and a general store. With the general store looming dead ahead, her feet slowed, growing heavier, clumsier, as if she were treading ankle-deep through thick mud. This town was going to be her home for at least a year. Starting today. Lord, help me make a good first impression.
On the bench by the general store’s door lounged some older men with unshaven, dried-apple faces. Matthew’s warning that some here would welcome her death made her quiver, but she inhaled and then smiled at them.
Grime coated the storefront windows with a fine film and the door stood propped open. Flies buzzed in and out. Her pulse hopping and skipping, Verity nodded at the older men who’d risen respectfully as she passed them. She crossed the threshold.
A marked hush fell over the store. Every eye turned to her. Drawing in as much air as she could, Verity walked like a stick figure toward the counter. The townspeople fell back, leaving her alone in the center of the sad and bare-looking store. She halted, unable to go forward.
She began silently reciting the twenty-third psalm, an old habit in the midst of stress. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.
Near the counter, a slight woman in a frayed bonnet and patched dress edged away from Verity, joining the surrounding gawkers. Verity tried to act naturally, letting everyone stare at her as if she hadn’t fastened her buttons correctly.
She forced her legs to carry her forward. “Good morning,” she greeted the proprietor. Her voice trembled, giving her away.
The thin, graying man behind the counter straightened. “Good day, ma’am. I’m Phil Hanley, the storekeeper. What may I do for you?”
She acknowledged his introduction with a wobbly nod, intense gazes still pressing in on her from all sides. Her smile felt tight and false, like the grin stitched on a rag doll’s face.
“Phil Hanley, I’m Verity Hardy and I need some of those eggs.” She indicated a box of brown eggs on the counter. “And, if thee have any, some bacon. And I need to ask thee who sells milk in town. I require at least two quarts a day. And I’m out of bread. I’ll need to set up my kitchen before I begin baking bread again.” Her words had spilled out in a rapid stream, faster than usual.
In the total silence that followed, the man stared at her as if she’d been speaking a foreign language. People who weren’t used to Plain Speech often did this, she told herself. They would soon grow accustomed—if she and her family stayed here longer than Matthew hoped.
She waited, perspiring. As the silence continued, Verity blotted her upper lip with a handkerchief from her apron pocket. More of the twenty-third psalm played in her mind. For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.
“Ma’am.” A slight, pinched-looking woman edged nearer and offered in a hesitant voice, “I just baked this mornin’. I have a spare pan of cornbread.”
With a giddy rush of gratitude, Verity turned toward the woman. “Thank thee. I’m Verity Hardy. And thee is?”
“Mary. I mean, Mrs. Orrin Dyke, ma’am.” Mary curtsied.
“I’m pleased to meet thee.” Verity offered her hand like a man instead of curtsying like a woman, knowing this would also brand her as an oddity. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
Mary Dyke shook her hand tentatively.
“Mary Dyke, I’m living at the Barnesworth house. Could thee drop by with that cornbread later this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am. I can do that,” Mary said with a shy blush, curtsying again.
Verity reached into her pocket and then held out a coin. “Here. I’ll pay thee in advance.”
“No.” Mary backed away, one ungloved hand
