bacon…” Their eyes met, and he frowned. “Everything all right?”
No. Things will never be all right.
Prudence balled her fists in her lap, tempted to spew her grief and anger. Lashing out would be pointless, and it wouldn’t change anything. She would subdue her emotions, rather than letting them blind her. “We’re having a chat, your mother and I.”
Mrs. Childers sipped her tea and kept up the slow rocking. That she said nothing could mean she had nothing to say. Or, she’d noticed the thick tension in the room and decided she didn’t wish to take a knife to it.
Arch continued to wear a troubled frown as he wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. After hanging his hat on a wall peg, he stopped by a bucket at the sink, dipped the ladle and took a long drink of water.
He hadn’t drilled a well, had to haul in water every day from the spring, and he’d just gotten around to plowing. She had enough knowledge about farming to know corn should’ve gone in earlier in the month. Maybe he was late because he’d been so busy peddling whiskey.
Why? Why did he have to be a deceitful bootlegger?
Pain pierced her heart. The agony worse than what she’d felt when Peter hadn’t shown up the day they were to be wed. She’d waited in the parlor, with all her relations and neighbors casting pitying looks her direction, while he had been curled up in a barn, sleeping off drunkenness. Her brother had tried to comfort her by telling her that his childhood friend wasn’t worth her tears. Peter had only wanted her because she was a good cook and housekeeper. Little comfort that brought.
In hindsight, she could see that she really hadn’t been in love with Peter. She’d been in love with the idea of marriage. This, this wretched longing, dashed hopes and soul splintering pain, this was love—and she wanted no part of it.
The creaking stopped. Mrs. Childers set her teacup on the table. “If your wife don’t mind, I’d consider it a privilege to make biscuits and gravy to go along with that bacon.”
Prudence caught Arch’s furtive glance. He might’ve worried that she had let the cat out of the bag and now he knew. She hadn’t disabused his mother of her mistaken notion. He could explain when she was gone.
“That’s real nice of you to offer, Ma. You don’t mind, do you Pru?”
His hopeful tone and obvious eagerness at the prospect of being well fed intensified Prudence’s misery. She also pretended to be someone she wasn’t, and resenting him for doing the same smacked of hypocrisy. They had both lied.
“No, of course I don’t mind. I’d be glad for your mother to make biscuits. I’m sure they’ll be wonderful.” Prudence pasted on a smile. She found a bowl below the counter. No need to let on she could make mouthwatering biscuits blindfolded. She would assist his mother and make the job easier on her.
As they worked, Arch whistled that blasted tune, Dixie .
Prudence hummed The Battle Hymn of the Republic .
This foolishness had gone on long enough. His choices, from songs to careers, proved that Arch was the wrong man for her. She had to get away, as far as possible. Forget about his kisses. Forget how good it felt to be in his arms. Forget that he made her feel beautiful and desirable.
With or without his help, she would get back to town and immediately wire her brother for money to cover her expenses and a one-way train ticket. She’d go to California to live with his family and take care of his children. Be content with the solitary life God had chosen to give her. The Lord couldn’t have intended for her to marry a conniving bootlegger.
* * *
Arch squatted by the fireplace, adding more hardwood to a low-burning fire. He kept whistling, acting like everything was normal even though he knew it wasn’t.
He found Pru’s loud humming amusing, but nothing else. The deep flush coloring her face, her tight-lipped expression and stiff posture, it all pointed to her being
No. Things will never be all right.
Prudence balled her fists in her lap, tempted to spew her grief and anger. Lashing out would be pointless, and it wouldn’t change anything. She would subdue her emotions, rather than letting them blind her. “We’re having a chat, your mother and I.”
Mrs. Childers sipped her tea and kept up the slow rocking. That she said nothing could mean she had nothing to say. Or, she’d noticed the thick tension in the room and decided she didn’t wish to take a knife to it.
Arch continued to wear a troubled frown as he wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. After hanging his hat on a wall peg, he stopped by a bucket at the sink, dipped the ladle and took a long drink of water.
He hadn’t drilled a well, had to haul in water every day from the spring, and he’d just gotten around to plowing. She had enough knowledge about farming to know corn should’ve gone in earlier in the month. Maybe he was late because he’d been so busy peddling whiskey.
Why? Why did he have to be a deceitful bootlegger?
Pain pierced her heart. The agony worse than what she’d felt when Peter hadn’t shown up the day they were to be wed. She’d waited in the parlor, with all her relations and neighbors casting pitying looks her direction, while he had been curled up in a barn, sleeping off drunkenness. Her brother had tried to comfort her by telling her that his childhood friend wasn’t worth her tears. Peter had only wanted her because she was a good cook and housekeeper. Little comfort that brought.
In hindsight, she could see that she really hadn’t been in love with Peter. She’d been in love with the idea of marriage. This, this wretched longing, dashed hopes and soul splintering pain, this was love—and she wanted no part of it.
The creaking stopped. Mrs. Childers set her teacup on the table. “If your wife don’t mind, I’d consider it a privilege to make biscuits and gravy to go along with that bacon.”
Prudence caught Arch’s furtive glance. He might’ve worried that she had let the cat out of the bag and now he knew. She hadn’t disabused his mother of her mistaken notion. He could explain when she was gone.
“That’s real nice of you to offer, Ma. You don’t mind, do you Pru?”
His hopeful tone and obvious eagerness at the prospect of being well fed intensified Prudence’s misery. She also pretended to be someone she wasn’t, and resenting him for doing the same smacked of hypocrisy. They had both lied.
“No, of course I don’t mind. I’d be glad for your mother to make biscuits. I’m sure they’ll be wonderful.” Prudence pasted on a smile. She found a bowl below the counter. No need to let on she could make mouthwatering biscuits blindfolded. She would assist his mother and make the job easier on her.
As they worked, Arch whistled that blasted tune, Dixie .
Prudence hummed The Battle Hymn of the Republic .
This foolishness had gone on long enough. His choices, from songs to careers, proved that Arch was the wrong man for her. She had to get away, as far as possible. Forget about his kisses. Forget how good it felt to be in his arms. Forget that he made her feel beautiful and desirable.
With or without his help, she would get back to town and immediately wire her brother for money to cover her expenses and a one-way train ticket. She’d go to California to live with his family and take care of his children. Be content with the solitary life God had chosen to give her. The Lord couldn’t have intended for her to marry a conniving bootlegger.
* * *
Arch squatted by the fireplace, adding more hardwood to a low-burning fire. He kept whistling, acting like everything was normal even though he knew it wasn’t.
He found Pru’s loud humming amusing, but nothing else. The deep flush coloring her face, her tight-lipped expression and stiff posture, it all pointed to her being
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