“Take the other.”
He hesitated but reasoned she would be disappointed if he didn’t. Besides, at his hungriest in the trenches, he’d sworn he would never again turn down food. “Okay. Hold on.”
He went down the steps to fetch a spare, clean handkerchief from his duffel so he wouldn’t have to wrap the extra piece of shortbread in the bloody handkerchief he’d used to bandage his hand.
When the treat was wrapped and tucked into his pants pocket, he said, “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
He hefted the duffel bag up by the strap and slid it onto his shoulder, then put on his hat. “Do you know anybody in town with a spare room? Doesn’t have to be fancy.”
“Near the railroad tracks. Room and board. Big yellow house.”
“I’ll find it.”
“I must remember to ask Mr. Hancock to remove the sign.”
“It’s not that conspicuous. I wouldn’t have noticed it if someone hadn’t told me where to look.”
“Oh? Who was dat?”
“Lady named Laurel Plummer. Lives out a ways.”
“Young woman with baby?”
“That’s right. I passed their place this morning. She gave me a drink of water. You’re acquainted?”
“Only one time I see her. Her baby girl had bad croup. She brought her to my husband for medicine.”
Little good it had done, Thatcher thought. “How old’s the baby?”
“Infant. Tiny.” She held her hands apart, about the length of a loaf of bread. “Poor Mrs. Plummer was very anxious.”
With reason. Living in such a squalid place couldn’t be good for a sick baby. “I didn’t meet her husband. What’s he do out there?”
“No husband. Father-in-law.”
He scratched his chin with his thumbnail. “That so?”
“Her husband…” Shaking her head, Mila Driscoll tsked. “He died.”
Huh. So it had been her father-in-law who’d had his shotgun at the ready. Thatcher hadn’t let on that he’d seen him, but he’d caught sight of that side-by-side as the woman had disappeared into the shadows inside the shack.
She’d told him her husband had come back from the war, and that must’ve been the truth if her baby was that young. He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How long since her husband passed?”
“Two months? Three? The story…” She paused as though reluctant to gossip. Thatcher didn’t encourage her to continue, but he hoped she would. He was itching to know why the elder Mr. Plummer was so trigger-happy. Maybe he was just overprotective of the recent widow and his sick granddaughter. Fair to say, too, that a stranger who showed up out of nowhere could be cause for concern to people who lived in such a remote spot.
Mrs. Driscoll overcame her reticence. “The story is that her husband took her and the baby to his old papa out dere, then shot himself the same night.”
Jesus. No wonder she’d looked gaunt and wound up.
“Such a shame for her,” Mrs. Driscoll said.
“Yes, ma’am, it is.” They were quiet for a moment, then he said, “I’d best see if they have any vacancies in that boardinghouse. Thanks again for the shortbread.”
“You’re welcome. Good luck to you, Mr. Hutton.”
He doffed his hat to her, and then, when he reached the street, he tipped it to the busybody who was still observing them from behind the lacy curtain.
Seven