Controlled anger.
He looked toward the vacant section of wall where a chair had clearly been removed from the table.
Then James pushed himself back.
The legs of his chair scraped against the floor.
He stood.
Twenty-four faces turned toward him.
James walked to a small writing desk near the window, lifted the decorative chair positioned beneath it, and carried it back to the table.
Beatrice went pale.
“Mr. Mercer, really, there’s no need—”
“There is.”
He placed the chair beside his own.
Then he looked directly at Evelyn.
“Miss Hartwell, would you please sit here?”
No one moved.
Evelyn could hear the clock above the fireplace.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Silas Crowe gave an awkward chuckle.
“Mercer, I believe Mrs. Hartwell already explained the arrangement.”
James did not look at him.
“I heard her.”
“Then perhaps—”
James finally turned.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
Silas’s smile vanished.
James pulled the chair back for Evelyn.
“Please.”
Evelyn looked at her mother.
Beatrice’s expression contained an entire command.
Don’t.
For nine years Evelyn had obeyed that expression.
Nine years of lowering her voice.
Lowering her expectations.
Lowering herself.
She untied the apron.
The knot slipped free.
She folded it once.
Then twice.
And set it on the table.
Evelyn sat beside James Mercer.
The room seemed to inhale.
James pushed her chair gently toward the table.
Then he sat beside her as though nothing unusual had happened.
Only when everyone else slowly resumed eating did he lean toward Evelyn.
“You made the blackberry preserves?”
She nodded.
“They’re excellent.”
And somehow those simple words nearly made her cry.
Because he had not said she was brave.
Or unfortunate.
Or deserving of sympathy.
He had simply spoken to her like a person sitting at dinner.
Evelyn lifted her water glass to hide the trembling of her mouth.
At the opposite end of the table, Lillian was staring at her.
Not angrily.
Strangely.
Almost as though she had been waiting for something.
Dessert should have calmed things.
It did not.
Beatrice became excessively cheerful.
Silas became excessively loud.
James became very quiet.
When Evelyn served herself a slice of the cake she had baked, Silas leaned back and smiled.
“Well, Mercer, I suppose now that you’ve rearranged Mrs. Hartwell’s table, we can discuss business.”
James wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“What business?”
“The north range.”
Evelyn’s fork stopped.
Silas continued.
“My father tells me you’re considering expanding the Double M toward Willow Creek.”
“No.”
Silas blinked.
“No?”
“I was considering purchasing grazing rights from the Hartwell property.”
Beatrice’s face tightened almost imperceptibly.
Evelyn noticed.
James continued.
“But I received a letter last month informing me the north meadow cannot legally be sold separately from the original Hartwell parcel.”
Beatrice placed her wineglass down.
“There must have been some misunderstanding.”
James’s gaze shifted toward her.
“The writer quoted the 1869 territorial survey.”
Silas laughed.
“Well, that eliminates every woman in the county.”
No one joined him.
Evelyn looked down at her plate.
James noticed.
“The writer also mentioned the old cottonwood marker beside Red Willow Creek.”
Evelyn’s fingers tightened around her fork.
She knew that tree.
Her father had taken her there when she was twelve.
