poured her own coffee cup to the brim. “Do you think so, Abel? I feel as if I’ve aged five years in the past five days.”
“It’s that black frock. You ought to go back to wearing your regular clothes. Put some color on, my dear. Ezra would be the very first one to tell you that. I’m certain.”
Hannah smiled. “He would, wouldn’t he? Ezra never much cared for me in black. He was partial to greens and blues.”
While Hannah sipped her coffee, Abel finished his oatmeal. Then he dabbed his napkin at his thick gray mustache, folded it carefully, and returned it to its silver napkin ring, which was engraved with an ornate D for Dancer.
He leaned back in his chair and flattened his palms on the table. “Hannah,” he said. “Ezra left a will.”
She blinked, surprised as much by his serious, rather official tone of voice as she was by his statement.
“I wanted to let you get your bearings before I mentioned it,” he added.
“Thank you, Abel. I’m grateful.” Hannah wasn’t all that sure she had her bearings, but at least it was encouraging that Abel thought so.
She’d always admired him. A widower who’d never had children, he’d come to Newton about the same time Hannah and Ezra had, hoping to start a newspaper in this up-and-coming cattle town. Unfortunately, though, it was the cattle that upped and went after a single wild and newsworthy year. Instead of publishing his own paper then, Abel Fairfax spent most of his time writing letters to the editors of other papers and composing long-winded articles for eastern magazines.
“I studied law back in Ohio,” Abel said now. “I don’t know if you’re aware of that or not.”
“You’ve mentioned it, I’m sure.” Hannah noticed now that Abel’s brow was even more wrinkled than usual and his lips were pursed thoughtfully, worrisomely, beneath his shaggy mustache. “Is there something wrong, Abel? Something about Ezra’s will?”
He didn’t answer her directly, but instead said, “Ezra named me his executor. I’d like to read you the will in my office, Hannah. As soon as possible. Not here, though. Do you feel up to walking downtown around three this afternoon?”
Now Hannah frowned. Did she feel up to it? She honestly didn’t know. But then she supposed the sooner she attended to legal issues regarding the house—which was, after all, in Ezra’s name—the sooner she could get on with her life. Not that it would be all that different from her past, she mused. She’d have the house. She’d have her boarders. Only Ezra’s absence would make a difference.
“Three o’clock will be fine, Abel.”
“Good.” He stood up and headed toward the front door. “I’ll see you then.” Halfway out the door, he paused. “And don’t worry, Hannah. Don’t you worry for a single minute.”
The screen door closed behind him.
Worry? Hannah thought. Worry? Why, it hadn’t even occurred to her.
By three o’clock that afternoon the big June sun had beaten down on Newton for eight straight hours and raised the temperature to ninety-two degrees in the shade. Since they hadn’t had rain in several weeks, the unpaved street was dustier than usual.
It was so dusty that Hannah felt like a black broom sweeping toward town in her mourning garb. She wondered how long it would be before the planked sidewalks stretched past the dry goods store, making her walks into town more pleasant not to mention cleaner.
When she lifted her skirt to step onto the sidewalk, several gentlemen tipped their hats and murmured their condolences. Hulda Staub, the wife of the mayor, was exiting the dry goods store just as Hannah passed, and the monumental matron immediately dropped her packages and wound her arms around Hannah, drawing her into a surprisingly tight embrace.
“My dear Mrs. Dancer. How I admire your courage in the face of your loss. How brave of you to be out and about so soon. Lord knows if my Herman passed, I’d barely be able to leave the confines of my bed much less my house.”
Caught in Hulda Staub’s flesh embrace, Hannah wasn’t exactly sure whether she was being praised or censored. She didn’t have time to decide, however, before the heavy-set woman continued.
“Well, now, you must come to our Ladies’ Sewing Circle, my dear, on alternate Wednesdays. I insist. We ladies mean to see that you’re not lonely.”
Hannah had lived in Newton for nine years without ever being invited into this exclusive little group. She had always assumed the ladies disapproved of her because she was so much younger than Ezra and also because, in those early years, she so obviously lacked some of the social polish she had later acquired. Deep in her heart, though, Hannah had a suspicion that these so-called ladies of Newton saw right through her and took her for the working girl she once had been.
She didn’t know how to respond to Hulda Staub’s invitation. And, to add to her dilemma, Hannah despised sewing and couldn’t imagine a worse way of spending her time than convening with a group of matrons, all poking needles through linen while rolling their eyes and wagging their tongues and making soft little tsk-ing sounds.
“Thank you, Mrs. Staub,” she said. “It’s very kind of you. Perhaps once I’m feeling a bit stronger...”
“Time, my dear,” the woman said, seeming to prefer her own voice and opinions to Hannah’s. “Time heals all. Shall we expect you next Wednesday?”
“Well, I...”
“Splendid!” Hulda Staub gathered up her packages. “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. Mr. Galt just received a lovely bolt of black moire at the emporium. You really must take a look at it.”
“Well, I...”
“Good day, my dear.”
Before Hannah could reply, the mayor’s wife was already bustling away. On her way, Hannah thought, to accost some other unsuspecting citizen. Then she immediately chastised herself for even entertaining such an uncharitable notion. No doubt Mrs. Staub meant well.
But, in the hope of avoiding any other well-meaning, solicitous folk, Hannah surveyed both sides of Main Street. The few people she saw were minding their own business while doing their best to keep to the shady portion of the sidewalk. Then, although she hadn’t planned it, her gaze came to rest on the empty chair in front of the sheriff’s office, and her heart promptly fluttered at the sight.
“Oh, Hannah,” she muttered under her breath. It wasn’t right, that feathery feeling inside her. It hadn’t been right when Ezra was alive. It was worse now that he was barely in his grave. It was downright wrong. Perhaps even sinful. Probably so. She ripped her gaze away from that beguiling chair just in time to see Henry Allen bound off the sidewalk in front of the bank.
“Mrs. Dancer,” he said breathlessly after sprinting across the street, kicking up dust in his wake. “You shouldn’t be out in this infernal heat. Why, you’ll melt away for certain.”
“I hardly think so, Henry. Unless, of course, you believe I’m made of snow or ice.”
His smooth-shaven cheeks flushed. “Oh, no. That would be an insult to one as sweet as you.” He crooked his arm in invitation. “May I escort you to Mrs. Tyndall’s for a lemonade?”
Instead of feeling flattered by his offer, Hannah was irritated. The silly young man. Why didn’t he aim those Cupid’s darts and sunbeams at someone who’d truly appreciate them? Florence Green, for example. But Henry appeared to regard the spinster schoolteacher—if he regarded her at all—as little more than a fixture in the house, a piece of furniture, a hall clock in the shape of a woman or a table draped in feminine attire.
“Thank you, Henry. That’s very kind, but I have an appointment at three o’clock.”
It suddenly occurred to Hannah that between Mrs. Staub’s aggressive attentions and now Henry’s