Delivering the Truth Read Online Free PDF Page A

Annie’s mind off the death for a moment. I hoped it would work.
    Annie smiled back, but it was only a shadow of her usual bright expression. “You should. I’ll lend you some.” At my raised eyebrows, Annie said, “Oh, that’s right. You’re not supposed to.”
    â€œYes, I have told thee before. Friends are to wear plain dress.” Faith sighed, sweeping her hand over her very plain dark green dress. “I’ll simply enjoy thy ribbons on thee, the ones Isaiah always delighted in.”
    I knew Faith loved bright colors as much as Annie. I had, as well, when I was seventeen. Now I had grown accustomed to my plain dresses in dark colors and my simple bonnet. I was too absorbed in my work to pay colorful items much mind, anyway.
    Annie pulled the ribbon from her hair and handed it to Faith. “Take this. Curl it up in your pocket. Wear it to bed. Do with it what you’d like, even if it’s only gazing upon it. Anyway, I shouldn’t be wearing bright colors myself while I mourn. It would be disrespectful to Isaiah.” Another tear slipped from her eye and trickled down her cheek, finally dripping onto her lace collar.
    â€œThank thee, Annie.” Faith took the ribbon and slipped it into her pocket.
    â€œI must get home,” I said and squeezed Annie’s hand. “Be well, friend.”
    â€œI’ll stay for a while,” Faith said.

    I made my way slowly back up Water Street toward Market Square.
    â€œRosetta!” a woman’s voice called out.
    Only one person in the world called me that. Smiling, I turned to see my friend Bertie Winslow hailing me. The wiry little woman, postmistress of the town, rode toward me waving from atop her horse. As usual, strands of her curly blond hair escaped out from under her hat, which was, as usual, set at a rakish angle.
    â€œBertie, how is thee?” I asked when she got close enough. “Surely thee wasn’t still at work last evening?”
    â€œNo, I was home. What a time, eh? Whoa up, Grover.” She pulled on the reins of the compact black horse.
    Only Bertie would name a horse Grover. I always smiled to hear her refer to a large animal by the name of our country’s president. It was delightfully subversive. And only Bertie had the nerve to ride astride instead of sidesaddle. She slid a leg clad in a long bloomer over Grover’s back and hopped off the animal, her skirt falling back down over her pantaloons. The bloomers, made from a cloth that matched the skirt, always showed when she rode. Bertie didn’t care what people thought.
    She was in her thirties, unmarried, and unconcerned about it. She and I had grown friendly after I had delivered her sister’s child several years earlier and Bertie had been there helping out. I enjoyed her always sunny and unconventional spirit. And since single working women were few in our town, we had that in common, too. Although she wasn’t exactly single.
    She hooked her arm through mine and we strode toward the square, Grover clopping behind. Bertie always strode.
    â€œWas there anything to salvage from the post office?” I asked.
    â€œNothing. Even the boxes were melted down. We’ll have to start from scratch.”
    â€œWhat a pity.”
    â€œI consider it a fresh start. Or would if men hadn’t died in the fire,” she said.
    â€œSuch a tragedy. Where is thee bound for?” I asked when we arrived at the busy intersection.
    â€œHave to meet with the postmaster in Salisbury to talk about reestablishing services, where the government wants us to rebuild, that sort of thing.” She squeezed my arm before mounting Grover. “Let’s go have fun one of these days, shall we?” she called back as she clattered off.
    â€œWe shall,” I called after her.
    In the square, wet ash coated awnings and smelled of sadness. The storm had blown through leaving a sunny, breezy day at odds with the town’s