Chapter Five

      The sheriff examined the feather, drawing it through his blunt fingertips, a look of incredulity on his face.

      Grace floundered for a response. Because of his height, his hard, muscled chest filled her vision, as did the strong, tanned column of his throat, the warped flesh on the left side disappearing beneath his shirt collar. His body gave off the scent of honey and something floral, a unique combination.

      Not knowing what to expect, she sent Jane outside to gather more flowers.

      “Don’t you like fried chicken?”

      His gaze traveled from the feather to the platter on the counter, then to her. He tilted his head a fraction of an inch. His assessment made her conscious of her disheveled appearance. She’d donned her most basic skirt, navy with thin white stripes, and a coordinating blouse. She hadn’t even bothered with a hoop skirt. After a full day of scrubbing floors, polishing windows, dusting surfaces and tending to Abigail, she was dirty and sweaty and exhausted to the point of light-headedness.

      “Did you ask Simon to kill the bird for you?”

      “Simon? No. I did it myself.”

      “And where,” he drawled, his Southern inflection deepening, “did a woman like you learn to pluck and gut a chicken?”

      Annoyance boosted her energy. “A woman like me?”

      “A city woman. From the looks of things, you haven’t had to fend for yourself in a very long time.”

      “I haven’t always lived an advantageous life, Mr. Burgess. You’re making assumptions again.”

      “You’re right,” he conceded. “I know very little about you.”

      “And I know only what your friend Mr. Canfield told me about you.”

      “It hardly matters, does it?”

      Jane burst through the door, waving fresh blooms. “Are these enough, Momma? I’m hungry.”

      Noah put distance between them and, taking the bowl of green beans from her hands, placed it on the table. Jane put the flowers into the jar with the others, not a bit intimidated by the brooding sheriff. “There. That’s better.” Lifting the bouquet again, she said, “Smell them.”

      Looking disconcerted, he bent his head and sniffed. “Uh, they smell nice.”

      Jane smiled in satisfaction and touched a fingertip to one of the petals. “I like the yellow ones best. Momma said I could put some in Abigail’s room later.”

      Grunting a noncommittal sound, Noah came back for the chicken. “How’s your other daughter?”

      Grace glanced at the closed bedroom door. “Abigail was sick several times during the night, but her fever has subsided.” As she’d worked throughout the morning and afternoon, she’d talked to God, asking Him to ease her child’s misery. A deep well of gratefulness overflowed inside her. “She’s resting comfortably now.”

      “Good news.”

      Aware that his relief stemmed from an entirely different reason than hers, she helped him carry over the remaining dishes and chose the seat across from him. After a moment of awkwardness, it was decided that Jane would offer grace. When she thanked God for providing her and her sister with a new pa and asked that he be nicer than her first one, Grace wanted to sink through the floorboards. Her face aflame, she avoided the sheriff’s perusal by focusing on filling Jane’s plate.

      She expected him to eat in grumpy silence as he had the evening before, so she started at the sound of his roughened voice.

      “Did you make these buttered rolls?” He snatched a second one from the pan and bit into it.

      “Jane and I baked them.”

      “They’re delicious. Better than the ones the café serves.” He pointed to the half-eaten chicken leg on his plate. “Tasty chicken, too. You’re an excellent cook, Mrs. Miller.”

      Jane darted her a furtive look, one that broke Grace’s heart. What kind of example was she setting for her children, urging them to go along with her lie? If Frank had accepted that she wasn’t interested in being with him, they could’ve remained in Chicago. Granted, she would’ve found a different place to reside in. Living with her mother-in-law and a mansion full of bad memories had become too difficult to bear.

      She lowered her fork and reached for her water glass. “I’m glad you like it.”

      “I helped prepare the dessert, too,” Jane announced proudly.

      He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Dessert?”

      “Yes, sir.” Her eyes twinkled, and her fat curls danced along her wide dress collar as she bounced in her seat. “Pound cake with berry preserves. We would’ve made an apple pie but couldn’t find any cinnamon.”

      “I hope you don’t mind we used your supplies. I will replace them.”

      “That’s not necessary,” he said gruffly. “I should’ve stuck around this morning and showed you where I keep the foodstuffs.”

      Grace thanked him for sending Simon out with lunch and lapsed into silence. Not one to sit still, Jane fidgeted and hummed as she ate. The behavior had irritated Ambrose’s mother, Helen. Many times after a tortuous family meal, Helen had taken Grace aside to admonish her for allowing it. No amount of scolding or instruction had been successful, however. From birth, Jane had been the more energetic of her girls.

      Now she watched the sheriff from beneath lowered lids to gauge his reaction. He didn’t appear to notice or care. His eyes on his meal, he seemed preoccupied with whatever was going on inside his head. She glanced at the tintype resting on the mantel. Curiosity welled up inside her, taking her by surprise. What terrible experiences had he endured that had so altered him from that young man in the photo?

      In Chicago’s elite circles, she’d been shielded from much of the war’s gruesome reality. It was only through her church’s charitable work that she’d gotten any significant information. The tales she’d heard had shocked her. Reports of inadequate supplies and disease. Debilitating injuries. Soldiers committing horrific acts against innocents. Noah had lived the war day in and day out.

      “That carved plantation house on the mantel. Is that a replica of your childhood home?”

      His brow knitted. Not looking at the object in question, he nodded but didn’t speak.

      “Where is that exactly?”

      His chest heaved with a sigh. “Virginia.”

      “You