“They got sore at me for taking their money.”
“You stole their money?”
He shook his head. “Won at cards.”
“Did you cheat?”
“No.”
She made a scoffing sound, expressing doubt.
“It’s true. I have a knack.”
Still frowning with skepticism, she raised her arm and pointed toward the road. “Go north about three miles. At the crossroads go east. It’s a state highway that leads straight to town and becomes Main Street.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now move along.”
“Could you spare me a drink of water first?”
She glanced toward the shack, seemed to debate it, then tilted her head. “Back here.”
He set his duffel on the ground and piled his coat and hat on top of it. She led him past a chicken coop that looked relatively new. Two hens were inside it, nesting. A rooster, strutting outside the coop, ruffled his feathers and challenged him and the woman with an aggressive beating of his wings. She told him to shoo or he’d find himself in a stewpot.
On the back side of the shack, a rough wood bench leaned lengthwise against the exterior wall. A bucket of water was sitting on it, a dented metal ladle hanging on a nail above it.
“Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
He lifted the ladle off the nail, dipped it into the bucket, and brought it to his mouth. The water was tepid but it was wet. He wanted to gulp but drank slowly in order to study her.
Her dress was baggy, indicating that either it was a hand-me-down from a woman of more substance or that there used to be more to her than there was now. There was nothing wrong with her shape, though. He’d noticed that each time the wind bonded the ill-fitting dress to her slender frame.
Her hair was honey-colored, lighter around her face, and pulled into a bun worn low on the back of her head. The wind had pulled strands loose, which seemed to aggravate her because she kept impatiently trying to tuck them back in.
In fact, her whole aspect was one of agitation. She was strung up a whole lot tighter than her clothesline.
Before he finished drinking, she lost patience. “I’ve got to get back to my wash.”
He drained the ladle and replaced it on the nail. “Much obliged.”
“You’re welcome.” She turned around and started back the way they’d come. He fell into step behind her. They were nearing the corner of the shack when the rooster came flapping around it with an angry squawk and tried to peck her hand.
She recoiled, bumping into Thatcher. Instinctively, he caught her upper arms. “Did he get you?”
“Not this time.”
“But he has?”
“More than once.”
The bird charged again. She flinched. Thatcher said, “Git!”
The rooster, having established his superiority, strutted away.
She eased herself free of Thatcher’s hands, but turned her head to speak over her shoulder. “He’s a wretched bird. I ought to wring—”