Dangerous Thomas Hayes.
Godless Thomas Hayes.
The man Reverend Bell had warned them about from the pulpit.
Then old Martha looked toward Norah.
Norah felt it immediately.
Before Martha even spoke.
“No,” Norah whispered.
Martha’s eyes softened.
“Child…”
“No.”
But Martha turned toward Thomas.
“The widow.”
Every face in the square followed her gaze.
Norah stood behind a narrow table covered with six loaves of bread she had awakened before sunrise to bake.
She was twenty-seven years old.
Her brown dress had been repaired so many times that the original seams were difficult to find. Her dark hair was pinned beneath a plain bonnet. She was broad through the hips and shoulders, with a soft round face that had once smiled easily.
She hadn’t smiled much lately.
Six weeks earlier, Norah had given birth to a daughter.
A beautiful little girl with black hair.
Norah had named her Grace.
Grace had never opened her eyes.
She had been born silent and blue while rain hammered against the boardinghouse windows and Norah screamed for a husband who was already buried beneath an oak tree outside town.
Her milk had come anyway.
Her body had prepared itself for a child her arms could not keep.
For days afterward, the pain had been unbearable.
Physical.
Emotional.
Indistinguishable.
And Willow Creek had shown her little mercy.
“That’s the one,” someone whispered.
“The big widow.”
Another voice snickered.
“Hayes must be desperate.”
Norah stared at the bread.
Then Thomas was standing before her.
Up close, he seemed even larger.
But she saw something nobody else seemed willing to see.
His hands were shaking.
The baby’s lips were dry.
Her cheeks hollow.
Her breathing came in tiny irregular gasps.
Norah forgot the crowd.
“What is her name?”
“Hope.”
Thomas’s voice softened instantly.
“Hope Hayes.”
Norah touched the baby’s cheek.
Cold.
Too cold.
Her stomach twisted.
She knew that color.
Grace had been that color.
“How old?”
“Seven weeks.”
Norah looked up sharply.
Seven weeks.
Almost exactly Grace’s age.
“She needs milk.”
“I know.”
“Where’s the wet nurse?”
“Left three days ago.”
“Why?”
Thomas hesitated.
“She said Reverend Bell told her it was sinful to remain under my roof.”
Anger flickered through Norah.
Then someone laughed.
“You really asking the fat widow?”
A second voice answered.
“She couldn’t even save her own baby.”
Norah went completely still.
Thomas turned.
Whatever fear had been on his face disappeared.
Something colder replaced it.
He handed Hope carefully to Martha.
Then he took one step toward the crowd.
“Say it again.”
Nobody did.
Thomas’s fists closed.
Norah caught his sleeve.
“Don’t.”
His jaw clenched.
“They shouldn’t speak to you that way.”
“They’ve been doing it for six weeks.”
“I said they shouldn’t.”
Norah looked at him.
There was no pity in his eyes.
