“Either you have an intended or you don’t. Why do some men find it difficult to answer a simple question?”
He opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it.
Smiling inwardly, she resumed eating.
But he wasn’t done. “Are you one of those women who thinks poorly of all men?”
“No. I know some who’re good as gold and others I’d not turn my back on. Not intending to marry either kind.”
“Society thinks a woman should marry.”
“Good thing I don’t live by what society thinks. Otherwise, I’d’ve married the lecherous old snake my grandfather tried to shackle me to when I was eighteen. Probably be out of the penitentiary by now though.”
He stared. She returned to her stew. Although he kept further questions to himself, there were unasked ones all over his brown-skinned face.
They finished their stew at about the same time. “Do you want more?” she asked.
He nodded and made a move to rise. She stopped him. “You’re still favoring that leg. I’ll get it.”
She brought their second helpings back to the table, acknowledged his thanks with a short nod, and asked him, “Did the tea help?”
“It did.”
“There’s more if you want it.”
“I do. Maybe after I finish this.”
“Still going to taste awful.”
“Understood. Is that one of the remedies your brother uses?”
“Along with everyone else out here. My brother trained at Howard’s Medical School. Don’t write something wrongheaded and insulting about him using so-called savage concoctions.”
“And have you feed me to a bear? Don’t worry.”
She knew he was making a joke, but his face was so serious, she was thrown off her stride for a moment. “What do you do back in Washington besides ask a lot of questions?”
“I read for the law at one point, but the newspaper is a sundown paper, so I make my living as a carpenter.”
“What’s a sundown paper?”
“The editor works on it in the evenings after his day job. My father owns the paper and I help when I can. He couldn’t take the time off work to interview your brother. I volunteered to make the trip instead.”
“So you work as a carpenter and not a lawyer?”
“Yes. I prefer working with my hands.”
Her eyes settled on them. They looked strong and capable like most men she knew, except for maybe banker Arnold Cale. His hands were as pink and pampered as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Victoria.
He’d apparently viewed her hands, too. “What happened to your finger?”
The top of her right index finger still bore the ugly black bruise from a hammering mishap. “Hit it with a hammer instead of the head of a nail.”
“Ouch.”
“Yes. I cussed a lot, but it’s healing.” She flexed the battered finger. “Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last, either.” Lady ranchers didn’t have pink and pampered hands.
“I’ve never met a woman rancher.”