“I’ll help you wring out that sheet and hang it on the line. It’s my fault it got dirty again.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“No, thank you.”

Her words were polite enough, but there was no mistaking her tone. She wanted him gone. He bent down, retrieved his hat, and put it on, then picked up his jacket and folded it over his arm. He lifted his duffel by the strap and was about to haul it onto his shoulder when he saw that he’d earned her notice after all.

She’d stopped what she had been doing and was staring at his jacket where it lay across his arm.

He fingered the torn seam that attached his sleeve, the one grabbed and held onto as he’d made his escape. “It was ripped during the altercation.”

She gave her head a slight shake. “It’s not the tear. I noticed the buttons.”

“Oh. They’re keepsakes from off my army uniform.”

When he’d mustered out, the army had reclaimed his uniform for reasons never explained. Did they expect another war to break out soon? Were they going to pass down his mud- and bloodstained uniform to the next guy they drafted into service?

He never knew. But before he’d relinquished the uniform, he’d ripped off the dull brass buttons bearing insignias. As soon as he’d acquired a suit of civilian clothes, he’d swapped out the buttons.

He ran his fingertip over the one with an embossed pair of crossed rifles and the capital letter B. “The 360th Infantry regiment. All us draftees from Texas and Oklahoma.”

“Yes, I know.” She spoke with a huskiness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “B Company.”

“You know someone who served in it?”

“My husband.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, then away as she resumed swishing the water in the cauldron.

“He make it back?”

“Yes.”

She kept her head down and didn’t elaborate, but he’d had his question answered. He hoisted the duffel bag onto his shoulder. “I’ll need a place to stay in town. Any suggestions?”

She was about to shake her head, when she hesitated, as though remembering. “In the window of Hancock’s store. There’s a sign advertising a room.”

“Where’s the store?”

“You can’t miss it.”

“Laurel?”

Startled, she looked in the direction of the shack from where the man’s voice had come. “I’m here,” she called.

“The baby’s coughing again.”

Just then a baby’s wail could be heard coming from inside. The woman propped her stick against the lip of the wash pot and started toward the door of the shack. As she rushed past Thatcher she said, “Be on your way now.”

“Thanks for the water.” Before she disappeared inside, he said, “Wait, what was that name again?”

She paused in the open doorway and looked back at him. “Hancock’s.”

“No. Your name.”

“Oh. Laurel. Plummer.”

Five

As Laurel rushed inside, she nearly ran directly into Irv, who was standing just beyond the threshold but far enough back in the shadows that he couldn’t be seen from the yard. He held a double-barreled shotgun crosswise against his chest. He raised his index finger to his lips, signaling for her not to make a sound.

She went over to the crib that Irv had made for Pearl out of scrap lumber he’d salvaged from one of his fix-it jobs. Her daughter’s face was near purple from crying and coughing. Laurel picked her up and held her against her shoulder as she firmly patted her back, trying to loosen the phlegm that had made her croupy for more than a week.

Irv remained stock-still, watching the stranger until he had reached the road and headed in the direction Laurel had told him would lead to Foley. Only then did Irv relax his stance. He returned the shotgun to its usual spot, resting it between two hooks mounted above the door.

Laurel said, “He hopped off a freight car and wasn’t sure of where he was.”

“That’s what he told you, anyway.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Any number of reasons, and none of them good.”

“He startled me, but apologized for it.” For reasons she couldn’t explain, she felt compelled to defend the stranger. “He was mannerly.”

“That’s the worst sort. They sneak up on you and act like your friend.”

“The worst sort of what?”

“Of anything. How many times have I told you to be suspicious of strangers? Out this far? He could’ve been up to all kinds of mischief.”

“He was only asking for directions and a drink of water.”

“He must’ve had the thirst of a damn camel. What took so long?”

“While we were back there, the rooster made a nuisance of himself.”

She thought the less said about that incident, the better. The mean rooster had been the least of it. She’d known what to expect from that damn bird.

Her thoughts lingered now on what had come after. She hadn’t touched a man, or vice versa, since Derby’s death. Not even Irv. Despite the stranger’s leanness, he’d felt as solid as a tree trunk when she’d backed into him. When he’d steadied her with his hands on her arms, she’d had a momentary yearning to lean against him. It hadn’t lasted any longer than the flit of a butterfly’s wings, so it didn’t merit dwelling on now. She forced herself to tune into Irv’s grumbling.

“He didn’t look like any hobo I ever saw.”

Not to Laurel, either. “No, but he looked like a man who’d jumped off a train. His clothes were dusty. He had a ripped sleeve and a bruised bump on his forehead. And a cut on his hand.”

She didn’t want to think at all about that business with his hand. Any woman in the world would have responded the same way to seeing a nasty cut like that. She’d reacted in a typically female way. Instinctually. Maternally. Although, held in her palm, his hand hadn’t felt like that of a child.

“What was that hogwash about saving his army buttons?”

Seeing them had been a bleak reminder of Derby’s uniform hanging abandoned in the empty closet. She hadn’t told Irv about that, and saw no point in telling him now. It would only make him sad.