The Devil's Cold Dish by Eleanor Kuhns

captive. With a mighty heave, the young man pulled away, tearing the grubby collar of his linen shirt. Rees was left with a handful of dirty cloth. But he knew who the lad was—one of Farley’s boys.
    He rushed to Lydia’s side. Sobbing with fear and humiliation, she was attempting to smooth her skirt over her bare legs. Rees helped her to her feet and folded her into his arms, glaring at the people standing around them. One final egg came flying through the air. Rees felt it break against his shoulder. He craned his neck and saw another lad join Farley’s son. Rees vowed he would find those boys. And beat them bloody until they cried for mercy.
    â€œLet’s get her to the church,” Potter said, joining Rees in the square. Raising his voice, he shouted, “Nothing more to see. Go back to your business.”
    Rees looked around, defying those who remained to say or do anything further. Most dropped their eyes, unable to look at him, whether from embarrassment or fear Rees could not tell.
    Potter took Lydia’s other arm and together they supported her over the short walk to the church. Once inside, Rees pressed Lydia into a seat in the back pew and examined her. Blood streamed from a cut on her forehead. The handkerchief she pressed to the wound was already crimson and a thin line of red ran down her hand and into the sleeve of her gown.
    â€œI’m all right,” Lydia said, but her wobbly voice gave a lie to her words.
    â€œIt’s just a scratch.”
    â€œMore than a scratch,” Rees said, trying to move her hand away. It was a long cut, although not deep, and blood was still seeping from it. He took out his handkerchief and pressed it to the wound. “What happened?”
    â€œPeople started shouting,” Lydia said. “Someone threw a rock.” Rees stared at her as she put her face in her hands. He knew she wasn’t telling him everything.
    â€œWill,” Potter said. And when Rees looked up Potter jerked his head toward the street outside. Rees hesitated, reluctant to leave his wife. Potter motioned emphatically toward the door and the bright sun beyond.
    â€œI’ll just be outside,” Rees murmured. Lydia nodded but did not open her eyes. With a final pat on her arm, Rees followed Potter to the slate walk outside.
    â€œIt was an attack,” he said baldly.
    â€œI saw Farley’s sons,” Rees said.
    â€œThey came from the Bull, liquored up and ready for trouble. Caldwell is trying to hunt them down now.” Potter hesitated, his eyes shifting from Rees’s.
    â€œWhat?” he asked. “What else?”
    â€œThey not only assaulted your Lydia,” Potter said in a hushed voice. “They called her names.”
    A wave of nausea swept up from Rees’s belly and into his throat. “What—what names?” He knew some, if not all, of the men in the Bull blamed him for Ward’s death. That was clear. Were they attacking Lydia because of him?
    â€œWitch. I heard one of them—he shouted, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ as he threw a stone.”
    â€œWhat?” Rees stared at Potter. “They openly accused Lydia of being a witch?”
    â€œIt was probably just, well, you know.” Potter shook his head in disbelief. “Probably just the worst accusation they could imagine.”
    â€œI’ll wager everything I own that Farley was at the back of it,” Rees said grimly. “He believes in witches and all manner of foolishness.”
    â€œMaybe. The constable can certainly tell you more. He saw it unfolding.” Potter glanced over his shoulder, as though he could see the market from the church. Except for the stalls at the very end of Main Street, nothing else was visible and those few tables appeared to have been abandoned. “Take your wife home. Where is your wagon?” He looked around as though expecting it to spring up with Hannibal already