over a stairway next to the bank. LAND BROKER. “Some folks call him Land Grabber or Get-Rich-Quick Forsythe. He knows more ways to part a man from his money than a duck’s got feathers.”
“I’ll not be having anything to do with him. The lawyer that’s handling Uncle Yarby’s will is Mr. Mark Lee. Do you know him?”
“Pshaw! Land lawyer!” He snorted with disdain. “Watch the little shyster. He’s square in Forsythe’s pocket.”
“Did you know Uncle Yarby?”
“Shore. Everybody ’round here knowed Yarby. Too bad. It was a shame; a pure-dee old shame what happened. Well, here we are.” He stopped in front of an open door.
“Thank you,” Kristin said softly before stepping inside.
“Keep yore wits about ya, girl.” The old man’s whisper came from behind her and was just as soft. Then he murmured, “Repeatin’ what I said could cost me my life.”
For a second Kristin thought the man had said something about “costing his life.” It was preposterous, of course. Her mind swam in a sea of confusion and bewilderment. She went into the restaurant looking much more relaxed and confident than she felt. Half a dozen men were seated at the long oil-cloth-covered table. The other table was occupied by a lone diner.
“Mornin’, Cletus. You’re right on time for a fresh batch of biscuits.” The woman who spoke had a pleasant, smiling face and was approximately Kristin’s age. “You got a knack of timing it just right.”
“Mornin’, Bonnie.”
“Your place is waiting for you, Cletus.” She turned friendly brown eyes on Kristin. “Come in, ma’am, and have a seat.”
The old man had taken the only vacant seat at the front table. Kristin moved to the near-vacant table and sat down at the end. The eruption of an unladylike growl that came from her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours.
Three chairs were empty between her and the only other person at the table: a rather handsome man with light, neatly combed hair and a freshly shaven face. His back was to the wall giving him a full view of the door, the kitchen and dining area. He looked at her briefly with light, steel gray eyes, then ignored her.
Kristin placed her bag on the floor at her feet and watched the woman set platters of biscuits on each end of the table where the old man sat and then bring a smaller plate of biscuits and one of fried meat and flapjacks to her table.
“Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, please.” Kristin turned up the cup that sat beside her plate.
Bonnie smiled. “Somehow I knew you’d say that. Be right back with a fresh stack of pancakes and bacon. Or would you rather have oatmeal?”
“Pancakes would be fine.”
She returned immediately with a coffeepot and filled Kristin’s cup. The gray-eyed man pushed his cup across the table, his eyes on Bonnie’s face. She filled it without looking or speaking to him and went back to the serving counter.
Kristin ate heartily. The flapjacks were light, the butter fresh and sweet. She asked the man at the table to please pass the syrup pitcher. He did so without as much as a glance in her direction.
It was evident that Bonnie was popular with her customers. She took their teasing with a laugh and tossed their sallies back at them. Her reddish brown hair was thick, and curly wisps of it stuck to her damp forehead. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, and an apron was tied about her small waist that emphasized her well-rounded breasts and hips. On one of her rounds of the tables she paused beside Kristin.
“Would you like some plum butter to go with your biscuits?”
“I would.” The quiet man at the table answered before Kristin had a chance.
When Bonnie brought the jar, she set it on the table and went back to the cooking area without a word. Kristin saw her speaking to the man standing before the large black cookstove. He was angry. She was trying to calm him.
The diners left two and three at a time. Finally
“I’ll not be having anything to do with him. The lawyer that’s handling Uncle Yarby’s will is Mr. Mark Lee. Do you know him?”
“Pshaw! Land lawyer!” He snorted with disdain. “Watch the little shyster. He’s square in Forsythe’s pocket.”
“Did you know Uncle Yarby?”
“Shore. Everybody ’round here knowed Yarby. Too bad. It was a shame; a pure-dee old shame what happened. Well, here we are.” He stopped in front of an open door.
“Thank you,” Kristin said softly before stepping inside.
“Keep yore wits about ya, girl.” The old man’s whisper came from behind her and was just as soft. Then he murmured, “Repeatin’ what I said could cost me my life.”
For a second Kristin thought the man had said something about “costing his life.” It was preposterous, of course. Her mind swam in a sea of confusion and bewilderment. She went into the restaurant looking much more relaxed and confident than she felt. Half a dozen men were seated at the long oil-cloth-covered table. The other table was occupied by a lone diner.
“Mornin’, Cletus. You’re right on time for a fresh batch of biscuits.” The woman who spoke had a pleasant, smiling face and was approximately Kristin’s age. “You got a knack of timing it just right.”
“Mornin’, Bonnie.”
“Your place is waiting for you, Cletus.” She turned friendly brown eyes on Kristin. “Come in, ma’am, and have a seat.”
The old man had taken the only vacant seat at the front table. Kristin moved to the near-vacant table and sat down at the end. The eruption of an unladylike growl that came from her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours.
Three chairs were empty between her and the only other person at the table: a rather handsome man with light, neatly combed hair and a freshly shaven face. His back was to the wall giving him a full view of the door, the kitchen and dining area. He looked at her briefly with light, steel gray eyes, then ignored her.
Kristin placed her bag on the floor at her feet and watched the woman set platters of biscuits on each end of the table where the old man sat and then bring a smaller plate of biscuits and one of fried meat and flapjacks to her table.
“Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, please.” Kristin turned up the cup that sat beside her plate.
Bonnie smiled. “Somehow I knew you’d say that. Be right back with a fresh stack of pancakes and bacon. Or would you rather have oatmeal?”
“Pancakes would be fine.”
She returned immediately with a coffeepot and filled Kristin’s cup. The gray-eyed man pushed his cup across the table, his eyes on Bonnie’s face. She filled it without looking or speaking to him and went back to the serving counter.
Kristin ate heartily. The flapjacks were light, the butter fresh and sweet. She asked the man at the table to please pass the syrup pitcher. He did so without as much as a glance in her direction.
It was evident that Bonnie was popular with her customers. She took their teasing with a laugh and tossed their sallies back at them. Her reddish brown hair was thick, and curly wisps of it stuck to her damp forehead. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, and an apron was tied about her small waist that emphasized her well-rounded breasts and hips. On one of her rounds of the tables she paused beside Kristin.
“Would you like some plum butter to go with your biscuits?”
“I would.” The quiet man at the table answered before Kristin had a chance.
When Bonnie brought the jar, she set it on the table and went back to the cooking area without a word. Kristin saw her speaking to the man standing before the large black cookstove. He was angry. She was trying to calm him.
The diners left two and three at a time. Finally
Similar Books
