“You’re referring to the war? I’m sure you saw some horrific things on the battlefield.”

“And in the hospital. Some of the men brought in might’ve been better off dying on the front. In the hospital, they were just made to suffer longer.”

“You were wounded?”

He shook his head. “Spanish flu. I was laid up with it for three weeks. Three miserable weeks.”

“I lived in constant fear of Derby being blown to bits, or dying of exposure to mustard gas, something war-related. But I was just as scared that he would die of flu.”

“Thousands did.”

“In some ways that seems a crueler death than being killed during a battle. Little glory. Less heroic.”

“More of a waste.” He focused on tracing the curved handle of the coffee cup with his fingertip. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

His somber tone indicated that he knew how Derby had died. Foley was a small town. Through someone, he would have heard the circumstances by which she’d become a widow. She nodded an acknowledgment of his condolence, then gestured to his empty plate. “Would you care for another piece?”

“No thanks. Sure was good, though.”

“I’m glad you liked it. The peaches came from Parker County. It’s famous for them.”

“I didn’t know that. They must be special if you went all that way to buy them. How long a drive is it?”

When she realized the dangerous territory she’d carelessly wandered into, her throat seized up. “Well, I didn’t go myself.”

“You sent Irv?”

“No. A couple of young men who deliver my bakery items were up in that area several days ago. They stopped at a roadside stand and brought a bushel of freestones back for me. It was very sweet and thoughtful of them.”

“Hmm.”

She could kick herself for bringing that up, and then for blabbering on about it. Hadn’t she warned Irv that telling too much was the best way to get caught lying? Although she’d essentially told the truth. The O’Connor twins had brought her back a bushel of peaches, but their primary errand had been to deliver several gallons of whiskey to the man in Weatherford who’d sold Irv the copper to make the new still.

Mr. Hutton seemed to detect that she was nervously dancing around something. He continued to stare at her over the rim of his cup as he drank the last of his coffee. He returned the cup to the saucer. “Your father-in-law is going to mend.”

She smiled. “I’m relieved.”

“He’ll be ornery for a week or so.”

Her smile broadened. “I expect so. He’s fiercely independent and doesn’t like to be fussed over.”

“I got that about him.”

He shifted in his seat, stretched out his long legs at an angle to the table, then drew them back beneath it. He turned his head aside and studied the spandrel with much more absorption than it warranted.

Evidently he wanted to say something, but was hesitant. She waited.

Finally, his meandering gaze came back to her. “I hated having to give you a scare tonight.”

“You mean when you arrived?”

“I knew it would shock you, seeing your father-in-law like that, the blood and all, but there was just no way to make it easy. At least, I couldn’t think of a way.”

“No, there wouldn’t have been an easy way. My heart was in my throat.”

“You must’ve thought the worst had happened.”

“‘Not Irv, too.’ That’s what flashed through my mind.”

“I saw the fear in your face.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“It was to me.”

The four words, softly and solemnly spoken, had an immediate and noticeable effect on the atmosphere. He said nothing more, for which she was glad. Except that, moments into the ensuing silence, during which they just sat there looking at each other, she wished for more dialogue, or a movement, no matter how slight, anything to relieve her awareness of him, which had become both terrible and tantalizing.

Her nightclothes were made of summer-weight cotton, old and soft from so many washings, but they began to feel like chain mail against her chest, equaling the pressure collecting behind her breastbone.

When she could stand it no longer, she said, “I had better check on Irv.” She pushed back her chair and came out of it so quickly, she tripped on the hem of her housecoat.

She hadn’t quite made it out of the dining room when he touched her arm from behind. “Laurel, wait.”

She didn’t upbraid him for using her first name. Of greater consequence was that he had covered the distance from the table in half the time she had and was now standing close behind her. So terrible and tantalizing that she kept her back to him.

“What, Mr. Hutton?”

“Why didn’t you ask me about Corrine?”

“I did ask you about her.”

“You wanted to know more.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.” He reached for her hand and turned her around, then kept his fingers clasping hers as they faced each other. “Why didn’t you ask how come she was with me?”

“Because it isn’t any of my business.”

“Yes, it is.”

He drew on her hand, bringing her closer to him, close enough for her to feel his body heat. Denying to herself that she felt anything at all, she kept her head lowered and whispered insistently into the open placket of his undershirt, “No, it isn’t.”

“Well, it’s about to be.”

With his other hand, he tipped her chin up. His eyes moved over her face, pausing momentarily on each feature. He brought his hand up to her cheek and rested it there. His thumb stroked her chin, coming close enough to her lips to make them tingle. He lowered his head, then more, more still, until his face filled her field of vision and she felt his breath drift warmly over her lips.

Her eyes closed.

His lips met hers softly, whisking back and forth, sipping gently, teasing her so maddeningly that she came up on tiptoes to secure the connection.

He made a low sound as his arm curved around her waist. The hand against her cheek slid beneath her chin, supporting her jaw and neck as he tilted her head and realigned their lips.

His were parted. Hers responded in kind.

Tongues touched, shyly and fleetingly, but electrically. Breaths caught and were suspended. He waited. For her it was agonizing, this indecision, this self-denial, this wanting, wanting, but fearing.