Her Captain's Heart. Lyn Cote

not peace. And you knew that, Verity. We discussed it.”

      “But guns, Joseph,” she said in a mournful tone, her voice catching. “The war is over.”

      Her sad tone stung Matt even more than the little girl’s fear. “Why don’t we discuss this in the morning?” he said gruffly.

      The little girl peered out from her mother’s skirts. And then yawned.

      Right. Time for bed. A perfect excuse to end the conversation. “It’s late,” Matt said. “Why don’t we just get you settled for the night—”

      “But how can we if you’re here?” The woman actually blushed.

      The solution came to him in a flash. “There is a former slave cabin back by the barn. I’ll stay there until this is sorted out. That should fulfill propriety until one of us is moved to another town. We could just take meals together in the house till then. I plan to hire a housekeeper.” He felt relief wash over him. He’d keep his privacy and she’d probably get a quick transfer to a more sensible post.

      Verity and her father-in-law traded glances. “Are thee sure thee won’t mind?” she asked in a way that told him she wasn’t just being polite.

      He shrugged. “I lived in tents through the whole war.” Images of miserably muddy, bone-chilling nights and cold rain trickling down his neck tried to take him back. He pushed the images and foul sensations aside. “Don’t worry about me. The cabin’s built solid and has a fireplace. I’ll be fine.”

      “You served in the Union Army, then?” she asked solemnly.

      He nodded, giving no expression or comment. I won’t talk about it.

      “My husband served in the Army of the Potomac.”

      Silence. Matt stared at them, refusing to discuss the war. It’s over. We won. That’s all that matters.

      Again, her eyes spoke of her character. Their intensity told him she took very little about this situation lightly. She inhaled deeply, breaking the pregnant moment. “Then we have a workable solution. For now. And tomorrow we’ll compose that telegram to the Bureau about this situation. Will thee help us bring in our bedding?”

      “Certainly.” He moved toward the door, thinking that he didn’t like the part about them penning the message together. I’m quite capable of writing a telegram, ma’am.

      Out in the moonlight, they headed toward the buckboard. Mrs. Hardy walked beside Matt, the top of her head level with his shoulder. She carried herself well. But she kept frowning down at the rifle he carried. And he in turn found his eyes drifting toward hers. “Let’s get started carrying your things in, ma’am.”

      Verity looked up into Matt’s eyes. “Thank thee for thy help. I’m sorry we woke thee up and startled thee.”

      Her direct gaze disrupted his peace. But he found he couldn’t look away. There was some quality about her that made him feel…He couldn’t come up with the word. He stepped back from her, unhappy with himself. “No apology necessary.”

      Laying his rifle on the buckboard within easy reach, Matt began helping Joseph untie and roll back the canvas that had protected the boxes and trunks roped securely together on the buckboard.

      Maybe this would all be for the best. Maybe he, too, should ask for a transfer in that telegram. It would be wiser. Then he could leave town before Dace and he even came face-to-face. Blood was the tie that had bound them once. But now it was blood spilled in the war that separated them.

      His thoughts were interrupted by the gentle sound of Mrs. Hardy sharing a quiet laugh with her daughter. The nearby leaves rustled with the wind and he nearly reached for his rifle. But it was just the wind, wasn’t it?

      Unsettled. That was the word he’d been looking for. Mrs. Hardy made him feel unsettled. And he didn’t like it one bit.

      Chapter Two

      In the dingy and unfamiliar kitchen, Verity sat at the battered wood table. Her elbows on the bare wood, she gnawed off a chunk of tasteless hardtack. Trying not to gag, she sipped hot black coffee, hoping the liquid would soften the rock in her mouth. Her daughter was too well-behaved to pout about the pitiful breakfast, but her downcast face said it all. Their first breakfast in Fiddlers Grove pretty much expressed their state of affairs—and Verity’s feelings about it.

      She leaned her forehead against the back of her hand. The house had looked more inviting in moonlight. Gloom crawled up her nape like winding, choking vines. And yet she couldn’t keep her disobedient mind from calling up images from the night before—a strong tanned hand gripping a rifle, a broad shoulder sculpted by moonlight.

      She gnawed more hardtack. Why had Matthew Ritter behaved as if he’d expected someone to attack them? The war is over. The people here might not like the school, but there is no reason for guns. Her throat rebelled at swallowing more of the gummy slurry. She gagged, trying to hide it from Beth.

      Joseph came in the back door. “Ritter isn’t in the cabin out back.” He sat down and made a face at the hardtack on the plate and the cup of black coffee. Joseph liked bacon, eggs and buttered toast for breakfast, and a lot of cream in his coffee. “Slim pickings, I see.”

      She sipped more hot coffee and choked down the last of the hardtack. “Yes, I’m going to have to find a farmer and get milk and egg delivery set up. Or perhaps that store in town stocks perishables.”

      “Do you think we’re going to be here long enough to merit that?” Joseph asked. “I’m pretty sure Ritter has gone to the next town to send that telegram.”

      At the mention of Matthew Ritter, Verity’s heart lurched. She looked away, smoothing back the stray hair around her face. Last night when Matthew had opened the door, shirtless and toting a rifle, she hadn’t known which shocked her more: his lack of proper dress or the rifle. Of course, they had surprised him after he’d turned in for the night. But he hadn’t excused himself and gone to don a shirt or comb his dark hair.

      Men often shed their shirts while working in the fields, but he’d sat with them in the parlor shirtless and barefoot. And she couldn’t help but notice that Matthew was a fine-looking man. She blocked her mind from bringing up his likeness again. Her deep loneliness, the loneliness she admitted only to the Lord, no doubt prompted this reaction.

      As if Joseph had read a bit of her thoughts, he said, “Ritter is probably more comfortable in the company of men. You know, after four long years of army life.”

      No doubt. She willed away the memory of Matthew Ritter in dishabille. “He might be sending the telegram, but we don’t know what the answer will be. Or when it might come.” She tried to also dismiss just how completely unwelcoming Matthew Ritter had been. And how blunt. “And we need food because, after all, we’re here.” And we can’t go back.

      Joseph grunted in agreement. “Well, I’m going to do some work in the barn. This place must have sat empty for quite some time. The paddock fence needs repairs before I dare let the horses out.”

      Verity rose, forcing herself to face going into a town of strangers. After Matthew’s dark forebodings last night, all her own misgivings had flocked to the surface, pecking and squawking like startled chickens. If we’re on the same side, he shouldn’t be discouraging me. How will we accomplish anything if we remain at cross-purposes?

      “Joseph, I’m going to walk to the store and see about buying some food. We’ll eat our main meal at midday as usual. I’m sure I’ll be able to get what I need to put something simple on the table.” I can do that. This is a state of the Union again. No matter what Matthew said, I will not be afraid of Fiddlers Grove.

      With a nod, Joseph rose. “Little Beth, you going with me or your mom?”

      “I want to help in the barn,” Beth said, popping up from the table. “May I, Mother?”

      “Certainly,” Verity said. Better you should