He said, “The sheet is winning.”

Four

At the sound of his voice, she spun around, looking at him wide-eyed, her hand slapping against her chest where her breath seemed to have become trapped.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Thatcher took off his hat.

She recovered enough to close her mouth. In the process of hastily gathering up the flapping sheet, a corner of it dragged through the dirt, which made her frown. She dropped the sheet back into a cauldron of water, obviously her wash pot. As she wiped her wet palms on the skirt of her dress, she looked beyond him toward the road.

Coming back to him, she said, “Who are you?”

“My name’s Thatcher Hutton.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Train.”

“There’s no depot within miles of here. Why was the train stopped?”

“It wasn’t. I jumped off.”

Knowing what that implied about him, she raised her hand and shaded her eyes against the sun as she regarded him with even more wariness. “Out in the middle of nowhere?”

“It was the lesser of two evils.”

“What was the other one?”

“The men sharing the boxcar with me bore a grudge.”

The admission didn’t earn him her favor. “So I see.” She looked pointedly at the goose egg on his temple and his bandaged hand. She squared her shoulders and motioned him toward the road. “Well, you lived to tell of it. Get on now.”

“I’ve walked several miles, and your place here is the first sign of civilization I’ve seen. What’s the nearest town?”

“Foley.”

He’d heard of it, but had never been there. But he hadn’t been much of anywhere before the war. “How far is it?”

“Five miles.”

Tapping his hat against his leg, he glanced over his shoulder at the road. “Five, huh?”

“At least.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be going that way any time soon.” He glanced toward the vehicles.

“No. Maybe you should’ve stayed on the train.”

“No, I needed to jump off.”

“How many of them were there?”

“In the boxcar? Three.”

“How did you get crosswise with them?”

“They got sore at me for taking their money.”

“You stole their money?”

He shook his head. “Won at cards.”

“Did you cheat?”

“No.”

She made a scoffing sound, expressing doubt.

“It’s true. I have a knack.”

Still frowning with skepticism, she raised her arm and pointed toward the road. “Go north about three miles. At the crossroads go east. It’s a state highway that leads straight to town and becomes Main Street.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now move along.”

“Could you spare me a drink of water first?”

She glanced toward the shack, seemed to debate it, then tilted her head. “Back here.”

He set his duffel on the ground and piled his coat and hat on top of it. She led him past a chicken coop that looked relatively new. Two hens were inside it, nesting. A rooster, strutting outside the coop, ruffled his feathers and challenged him and the woman with an aggressive beating of his wings. She told him to shoo or he’d find himself in a stewpot.

On the back side of the shack, a rough wood bench leaned lengthwise against the exterior wall. A bucket of water was sitting on it, a dented metal ladle hanging on a nail above it.

“Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

He lifted the ladle off the nail, dipped it into the bucket, and brought it to his mouth. The water was tepid but it was wet. He wanted to gulp but drank slowly in order to study her.

Her dress was baggy, indicating that either it was a hand-me-down from a woman of more substance or that there used to be more to her than there was now. There was nothing wrong with her shape, though. He’d noticed that each time the wind bonded the ill-fitting dress to her slender frame.

Her hair was honey-colored, lighter around her face, and pulled into a bun worn low on the back of her head. The wind had pulled strands loose, which seemed to aggravate her because she kept impatiently trying to tuck them back in.

In fact, her whole aspect was one of agitation. She was strung up a whole lot tighter than her clothesline.

Before he finished drinking, she lost patience. “I’ve got to get back to my wash.”

He drained the ladle and replaced it on the nail. “Much obliged.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned around and started back the way they’d come. He fell into step behind her. They were nearing the corner of the shack when the rooster came flapping around it with an angry squawk and tried to peck her hand.

She recoiled, bumping into Thatcher. Instinctively, he caught her upper arms. “Did he get you?”

“Not this time.”

“But he has?”

“More than once.”

The bird charged again. She flinched. Thatcher said, “Git!”

The rooster, having established his superiority, strutted away.

She eased herself free of Thatcher’s hands, but turned her head to speak over her shoulder. “He’s a wretched bird. I ought to wring—”

Then she winced and came full around to face him. At first Thatcher thought the rooster had pecked her after all, but it wasn’t her hand she was grimacing over, it was his. When he’d clasped her arms, the handkerchief had come unwound, exposing the cut on his palm.

She reached for his hand and held it supported in hers as she examined the cut, gently pressing the flesh on either side of it. “You should have that looked at. It could get—”

She broke off when she looked up into his face and realized how close they were standing, how still he’d become, and how fixated he was on her face.

She snatched her hand back, then, with a swirl of her skirt, rounded the corner of the building out of sight.

Thatcher blew out a long breath, wadded up the bloodstained handkerchief and stuffed it into his pants pocket, then followed her back to the wash pot where she was jabbing the contents with a stick as though punishing the soaking sheets. She didn’t look at him.