she asked. He noticed that her hand was shaking.
“Thanks.”
“And then we will discuss my newspaper advertisement.”
They drank their coffee in complete silence, and after a while he wondered if he’d said something to offend her. He sure hoped not. He’d do almost anything for another chicken dinner. Or any dinner.
“Where are your people, Mr. Winterman?”
His people? “I’m da—Darned if I know, ma’am.”
“But surely you have some family living? A mother? Father?”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Malloy. I was raised in the South.” He cleared his throat. “When I went back after it was all over there was nothing left standing.”
“So you came north?”
“Uh, yeah.” He saw no need to explain everything that had happened next. Or explain why he’d been in Kansas when the War broke out.
“I see,” she said primly. “I need a hired man to help out here on the farm. I can offer meals and lodging in the barn, but I cannot offer any pay. Would that suit?”
“Yes, ma’am, it would. I can see that you need help around here. You need a new front gate for one thing, maybe a new barn roof, a new front fence, a new porch step, and...” He shot a look at the open front door. “A new screen door.”
“I will also need help with the apples when they come on in the fall. I cannot... Well, I can no longer lift the heavy bushel baskets.”
“Some reason?” She couldn’t be expecting, could she? She looked slim as a birch rod. And, since there was no sign of a man around, he figured she was a widow.
“The doctor says I will regain my strength in time, but right now...” Her voice trailed off. She took a sip of her coffee and set the cup on its saucer with a sharp click. “I asked if the arrangement I offered would suit,” she reminded him.
“Oh, sure it will, Miz Malloy. Thanks.” He resisted an impulse to lean over the table and hug the heck out of her.
Eleanor studied her empty coffee cup, then flicked a glance at the man’s face. He looked tanned and weather-beaten, but his eyes were kind. Very blue, she noted, but kind. He handled himself well. His body was lithe and muscular, and he had nice manners. She would not want Molly or Danny to pick up bad habits. Her instincts told her Mr. Winterman was trustworthy and well-behaved, and he was willing to work for just room and board. Until the apple harvest, that was all she could afford.
On the other hand, her instincts had been wrong before.
Mr. Winterman unfolded his tall frame from the chair and stood up, strode to the door and snagged his worn gray hat off the hook. As he went to push the screen open he caught sight of the revolver she kept above the door.
“This your gun?”
“It is, yes. I keep it for protection.”
He sent her a look. “Can you fire a revolver?”
“Y-yes, if I have to.”
“I mean cock it and fire it like you mean to hit something. On short notice?”
“Probably not,” she admitted.
“Got any ammunition?”
“Yes, I think so. Somewhere.”
He said nothing for a long moment. Then he turned to face her. “It’s dangerous to keep a gun you can’t fire in plain sight. Also dangerous for your boy. He might figure he wants to try it out one of these days.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Trust me, ma’am. He’s a boy, isn’t he?”
She stared past him at the velvet-covered settee, then let her gaze drift to the lilac bush out the parlor front window. “I know my son, Mr. Winterman.”
He snorted. “All mothers think that, Miz Malloy.”
An overwhelming urge to weep swept over her and her chest tightened into a sharp ache. She did not like this man, she decided. He was too sure of himself. Too knowledgeable. She remembered his eyes when they looked into hers. Hungry.
But she needed a hired man.
Cord unsaddled Sally, walked her into an empty stall in the barn and fed her a double handful of oats. Now, where should he bed down? He eyed the ladder up to the loft overhead and smiled. He liked straw, and he liked being up high; it gave him a hawk’s-eye view of whatever was going on. Which wouldn’t be much on a farm this run-down, he figured, but you never knew. Experience, most of it bad, had taught him that the unexpected could be damn dangerous.
He washed up at the pump in the yard. The cool water felt so good after days in the saddle he stripped off his shirt and did it again, then tossed his saddlebags and a single wool blanket up into the loft and let out a long breath. He’d always loved the smell of a barn—horses, leather, animal droppings, clean straw. This barn had two animals in roomy stalls, a sturdy gray gelding with a white star on its forehead and a milk cow contentedly chewing her cud and rolling a disinterested brown eye at him. A dusty saddle hung on one wall, and a broken-down buggy sat in one corner. It didn’t look sturdy enough to get to town and back, and the cracked leather seat looked mighty uncomfortable.
He wondered how the woman, Mrs. Malloy, fetched supplies. The boy looked too young to ride into town alone, and she didn’t look strong enough to make the trip. If she was a widow, as he figured, she must have had some kind of help. Then again, the place looked so run-down it was plain it hadn’t been cared for in some time.
He crawled up into the loft, spread out the worn wool blanket he’d slept in ever since leaving Missouri and folded his arms under his head. This place would do until he could get his feet under him. At least he could eat regular meals and sleep with both eyes shut instead of with his Colt under his pillow and one finger on the trigger.
He wondered if he’d ever get back to feeling like a normal human being again, someone who didn’t flinch at every loud noise and wonder where his next meal was coming from. Someone who could learn to trust his fellow man again. The War had shaken his faith in the human race, and his years in Missouri had taken care of the rest.
Stop thinking about it. He should count himself lucky; just about the time he was thinking about giving up, he’d come up over that hill and smelled those apple blossoms.
* * *
Breakfast the next morning made him smile. When he walked into the kitchen, little Molly was standing on a chair at the stove, poking an oversize fork into a pan full of sizzling bacon. Daniel was cracking fresh eggs into a china bowl. “Plop!” He chortled after the first one. “Plop!” he said again.
His mother laid slices of bread on the oven rack, moved the speckleware coffeepot off the heat and dumped in a cup of cold water to settle the grounds. The kitchen smelled so good it made Cord’s mouth water.
She motioned him to a chair. “Coffee?”
“Please.” He pushed his cup across the table toward her.
“There is no cream, I’m afraid. Bessie hasn’t been milked yet.”
“Black’s fine.”
She turned back to the stove. “Molly, lift those bacon slices onto the platter now. And no snitching!”
The girl clunked down a china platter of bacon in front of him. “No snitching,” she whispered, then twirled back to the frying pan.
“Wouldn’t dream of snitching,” he murmured. That brought a giggle from Molly and a sharp look from Mrs. Malloy.
“Daniel,