her silly game, he leaned toward Miss Vee and lowered his voice. "Are you’re certain it’s the food they’re after? Miss Bell’s a mighty handsome woman."
Her cheeks warming, Mariah hurriedly changed the subject. "Where are you from, Mr. McRae?"
A touch of sadness flickered on his face, gone so fast Mariah wondered if she’d imagined it. "Who me?" He toyed with a kernel of corn on his plate with the tines of his fork, taking his time to answer. "I suppose you could call me a drifter. I try not to stay in one place for too long. The minute roots start to sprout from my toes, I hit the road again." He stabbed the kernel and popped it in his mouth. "Can’t have anything pinning me down."
Mariah’s glass paused in midair. "That’s a dreadful way to live … if you don’t mind my saying," she added, borrowing his earlier phrase.
"Mariah Bell!" Miss Vee shamed her with a glance. "Mind your manners." Bristling, she ladled him another serving of potatoes. "The very idea."
"Well, I’m sorry, it’s true." She took the bowl Miss Vee passed to her, tilting her head at Mr. McRae. "Don’t you miss having land or family? I thought such things were important to men."
He rolled his shoulders as if casting off a weight. "Too confining. When I get ready to light out, I don’t want anything riding my coattail."
His lowered lids were hiding something. When trouble plagued Mariah, she’d saddle Sheki and race along the bank of the Pearl, drawing strength from the rushing water. Tiller McRae seemed more like a man swimming upstream.
Another glance at his forced brightness pierced the shell of his posturing. The handsome young man’s swagger covered a deep well of discontent. Mariah’s heart stirred with unexpected pity.
Tittering, Miss Vee raised her goblet of water. "Here’s to living free."
Strident knocking on the front door startled Miss Vee so violently she jumped. The glass slipped from her hand, hit the table, and tipped over, landing in front of Mariah on its side. A ring of moisture spread in a wide circle from the mouth, soaking the tablecloth down to the wood.
The pounding came again, louder and more persistent.
Squealing, Dicey spun toward the sound, her fingers twisting the dishcloth in her hand.
Mariah folded her napkin and stood. "It’s all right, Dicey. I’ll go."
Wiping his mouth, Mr. McRae half rose from his chair. "Is there a problem?"
She shook her head. "Not at all."
"Are you sure?" He straightened, watching her. "Would you like for me to go with you?"
"Of course not." The lie raised a knot in her throat. Swallowing hard, Mariah hurried from the room and down the hall. She’d answered the bell to lodgers countless times in her life. Why did it suddenly seem so frightening?
At the entry, she turned the lock and gripped the knob. Holding her breath, she opened the door.
Four strange men stood on her porch, two of them supporting the weight of an old man. Rusty blotches stained his shirt, and dried blood darkened the tuft of white hair on his head, stiffening the wiry strands.
Mariah’s breath quickened. "What happened?"
A tall gentleman standing behind the others took off his hat. "We’re not sure, ma’am. We found him huddled on the road blubbering and talking out of his head. He’s been whacked plenty hard on the noggin."
She stepped aside. "Bring him in, please."
They bundled him over the threshold and followed her to the guest room across the hall from the parlor. Mariah pulled back the quilt and stood wringing her hands while they laid him against the pillows.
She glanced at the two who had carried him. "Stay with him, if you don’t mind. I’ll be right back." To the others, she nodded toward the hall. "You must be tired and hungry. Won’t you join us for supper?"
The big man smiled kindly and shook his head. "A tempting offer, ma’am, but we need to be on our way."
"Very well," Mariah said. "Wait inside the parlor, and I’ll pack you something to take with you."
Her cheeks warming, Mariah hurriedly changed the subject. "Where are you from, Mr. McRae?"
A touch of sadness flickered on his face, gone so fast Mariah wondered if she’d imagined it. "Who me?" He toyed with a kernel of corn on his plate with the tines of his fork, taking his time to answer. "I suppose you could call me a drifter. I try not to stay in one place for too long. The minute roots start to sprout from my toes, I hit the road again." He stabbed the kernel and popped it in his mouth. "Can’t have anything pinning me down."
Mariah’s glass paused in midair. "That’s a dreadful way to live … if you don’t mind my saying," she added, borrowing his earlier phrase.
"Mariah Bell!" Miss Vee shamed her with a glance. "Mind your manners." Bristling, she ladled him another serving of potatoes. "The very idea."
"Well, I’m sorry, it’s true." She took the bowl Miss Vee passed to her, tilting her head at Mr. McRae. "Don’t you miss having land or family? I thought such things were important to men."
He rolled his shoulders as if casting off a weight. "Too confining. When I get ready to light out, I don’t want anything riding my coattail."
His lowered lids were hiding something. When trouble plagued Mariah, she’d saddle Sheki and race along the bank of the Pearl, drawing strength from the rushing water. Tiller McRae seemed more like a man swimming upstream.
Another glance at his forced brightness pierced the shell of his posturing. The handsome young man’s swagger covered a deep well of discontent. Mariah’s heart stirred with unexpected pity.
Tittering, Miss Vee raised her goblet of water. "Here’s to living free."
Strident knocking on the front door startled Miss Vee so violently she jumped. The glass slipped from her hand, hit the table, and tipped over, landing in front of Mariah on its side. A ring of moisture spread in a wide circle from the mouth, soaking the tablecloth down to the wood.
The pounding came again, louder and more persistent.
Squealing, Dicey spun toward the sound, her fingers twisting the dishcloth in her hand.
Mariah folded her napkin and stood. "It’s all right, Dicey. I’ll go."
Wiping his mouth, Mr. McRae half rose from his chair. "Is there a problem?"
She shook her head. "Not at all."
"Are you sure?" He straightened, watching her. "Would you like for me to go with you?"
"Of course not." The lie raised a knot in her throat. Swallowing hard, Mariah hurried from the room and down the hall. She’d answered the bell to lodgers countless times in her life. Why did it suddenly seem so frightening?
At the entry, she turned the lock and gripped the knob. Holding her breath, she opened the door.
Four strange men stood on her porch, two of them supporting the weight of an old man. Rusty blotches stained his shirt, and dried blood darkened the tuft of white hair on his head, stiffening the wiry strands.
Mariah’s breath quickened. "What happened?"
A tall gentleman standing behind the others took off his hat. "We’re not sure, ma’am. We found him huddled on the road blubbering and talking out of his head. He’s been whacked plenty hard on the noggin."
She stepped aside. "Bring him in, please."
They bundled him over the threshold and followed her to the guest room across the hall from the parlor. Mariah pulled back the quilt and stood wringing her hands while they laid him against the pillows.
She glanced at the two who had carried him. "Stay with him, if you don’t mind. I’ll be right back." To the others, she nodded toward the hall. "You must be tired and hungry. Won’t you join us for supper?"
The big man smiled kindly and shook his head. "A tempting offer, ma’am, but we need to be on our way."
"Very well," Mariah said. "Wait inside the parlor, and I’ll pack you something to take with you."
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