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his business might be. “As soon as I finish patching the roof over the hay, I’ll leave for town.”
    Picking up their plates, she carried them to the sink and scraped hers into the slop bucket, disappointed that he hadn’t come to North Texas solely to find her.
    “You can stay here if you want,” she said, keeping her voice light, as if it made no never-mind to her where he decided to stay. “No one can ride out here without being seen and heard. You wouldn’t have to worry that Joe Hasker or someone like him is coming up behind you.” If, indeed, he did worry about being ambushed. She suspected he didn’t. More likely he relied on instinct and skill and left the rest to fate.
    “That’s a generous offer, Mrs. Ward,” he said after a period of silence. “I’m obliged.”
    “I’m sure a bed would be more comfortable than a haystack in a leaky barn. But I’ve eaten at the hotel, and unless things have improved, I can promise you better cooking.”
    She heard the scrape of his chair behind her and felt him watching her. “I never thought of you as being a cook.”
    It surprised her greatly that he’d thought of her at all. Then she remembered her wedding photograph. “When that photograph was taken,” she said, pumping water into the dishpan, “I didn’t know how to make a pot of coffee. After the slaves ran off, I learned fast; it was that or starve, which we almost did anyway.”
    Raising her head, she looked out the window. “There was an old man named Dough who didn’t run off, bless him. He helped with Mr. Ward, who we thought was dying, and he brought meat every few days. God only knows what kind of meat. I never asked. Didn’t want to know. He found wild onions, too. Dough taught me how to make stew, and we stayed alive.”
    “Put in enough salt and almost anything becomes edible.”
    Della nodded. “After the war, we moved to town and Mrs. Ward hired a maid. The maid wasn’t much good at anything except cooking. That woman could cook. By then I knew that cooking was a good skill to have.” She shook her head and plunged her hands into the soapy water. “Turned out that I like to cook.”
    But cooking for one was like an actor reciting to an empty theater. “So you’ll do me a kindness if you stay. I can practice dishes I haven’t tried in a while.”
    He said something about her place needing work and excused himself. And no wonder. She was babbling. He’d made a simple comment and she’d responded by going on about how and where she’d learned to cook. Another few minutes and she would have started quoting recipes. Disgusted with herself, she washed and dried the dishes and then put a roast in the oven for supper. Later this afternoon, she’d make a pecan cake with vanilla frosting.
    But right now she needed to assure herself that she wasn’t dreaming. Hurrying to the bedroom, she eased back the curtain and peeked toward the barn, hoping he didn’t see her. He was back on the roof, making those good sounds with the hammer. And he wasn’t leaving.
    Lowering her head, she whispered a prayer of gratitude, absurdly pleased that he’d stay a few more days. She had expected him to ride away after answering her miserably few questions. Heaven hadn’t given her the answer she craved, that Clarence had forgiven her, but heaven had granted her a visitor as a brief token of consolation.

Chapter 3
     
    Artillery bombarded the grassy field, tearing up the earth and pinning him in the adjacent trees and brush. Separated from his men, frustrated, he scanned the exploding dirt and stones and considered making a run for the north end of the field, estimating his chances for surviving the hail of explosives. Not good, he decided.
    He didn’t know which side was firing on the clearing, but the decision was ill conceived. Some overzealous officer had directed his men to destroy an empty field.
    All right, attempting to dodge the artillery was suicide. He’d wait out the bombardment, and try