He gave a dry laugh. “Ma’am, you don’t owe me anything.”
“No, wait. Please?”
Her eager nodding persuaded him. “Okay.”
She beamed a smile. “Come up to the porch. I’ll be right back.” Leaving her watering can, she bustled inside.
Thatcher pushed open the gate and went up the walk. He stopped at the bottom of the steps leading onto the porch and eased the duffel bag off his shoulder, setting it on the ground. Then he stood there threading the brim of his hat through his fingers as he took a look around.
The house across the street was comparable to Dr. Driscoll’s in size and architecture, and was obviously occupied by a snoopy neighbor. He noticed movement behind a lace curtain in one of the front windows before it dropped back into place.
After a minute or two, the lady returned, pushing through the screen door, happily bobbing her head and making the blond curls framing her face bounce. “Fresh baked shortbread. Come.”
He left his hat on top of his duffel bag and climbed the steps. She met him halfway across the porch and extended a plate to him. It was china and lined with one of those white lacy things. On it were two large squares of shortbread, the aroma of which made Thatcher’s stomach growl. He’d eaten the last of the cheese and crackers during his five-mile hike from the Plummers’ place, but they hadn’t gone far.
“Are you Mrs. Driscoll?”
“Mila Driscoll, yes.”
“Thatcher Hutton.”
“Mr. Hutton. Please.” She thrust the plate toward him.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
He took one of the squares from the plate and bit into it. It was soft, buttery, sweet, and still warm from the oven. He swallowed the bite. “Delicious.”
“My husband’s favorite.”
Her face was round and rosy, and shiny with perspiration, which she fanned with her apron. The cloth had red and yellow apples printed on it, bordered in a red ruffle. When she smiled, her whole face lit up.
He thought about the tense set of Laurel Plummer’s features. He couldn’t feature her smiling so unguardedly or wearing that cheerful apron. “Your husband’s office is here in the house?”
“Front parlor, yes.” She nodded toward a tall bay window that was both functional and ornamental.
“Do you help with his practice?”
“No. Better I don’t.”
Her chee
rful blue eyes took on a sad cast as she glanced behind him toward where he’d left his duffel, which was obviously U.S. army issue. It showed the wear and tear of having been to war and back.
Even before the states got into it, people of German descent were subjected to resentment and suspicion because of a foreign war they’d had nothing to do with. Mila Driscoll’s accent was a giveaway to her heritage. Thatcher reckoned she’d experienced a taste of unfair ostracism.
She didn’t refer to the war or his obvious service. Instead she asked him if he was moving to Foley.
“No, ma’am. Just staying for a spell.”
During the last mile of his journey today, he’d decided that hitching a free ride in freight cars came with risks he was unwilling to take again. His best option at this point was to earn enough money to buy a train ticket to whatever stop would get him closest to the Hobson ranch up in the Panhandle.
Before going off to do Uncle Sam’s bidding, Mr. Henry Hobson had told him, “Don’t get yourself maimed or killed over there. Your job here will be waiting on you when you get back.”
Thatcher had promised that he would be back, but the army had kept him in Germany for over a year after the armistice, so his return had taken longer than he’d counted on. Now on his way, he was eager to get back to his former life.
It was likely to take him a couple of weeks to earn enough to cover the cost of the train ticket and keep himself fed and sheltered. Say a month at the outside. But he needed to be getting at it and find a place to bunk for however long he was here.
He finished the shortbread. “It sure was good, Mrs. Driscoll.”