Della Cramer pushed the clothespin down so hard it snapped in two. She caught one half, but the other flew across the yard, barely missing Deputy Monroe.
Too bad.
The man was a thorn in her side.
She cringed, knowing she hadnât wanted the pin to hit him. Besides, Spencer was much too handsome to be compared to a lackluster thorn. A rose would be more just. But men werenât compared to roses, and roses didnât grow in her small piece of dry Kansas dirt, which was the problem. Spencer Monroe made her think of things that couldnât be.
The deputy bent down and picked up the pin, but the gaze he held on her never wavered. Dellaâs heart leaped to pound near the base of her throat. Sheâd triedâfor yearsâbut couldnât ignore the way he stirred her insides. Drawing a fortifying breath, she pulled away from his ink-blue eyes and turned to the couple beside him.
A chill stole her smile before it could form. Something in both Florieâs and Cordâs eyes said all wasnât right in the world. Della pushed aside the sheet half pinned to the clothesline. âWhatâs happened?â
âCan we go inside, Della?â Cord pointed to her back porch. âWe need to talk to you.â
Dellaâs heart landed near her toes, imagining the worstâsomething happening to her daughters. âThe girls?â
âAnna and Elsie are fine, Della,â Spencer assured.
Relief was short-lived as Dellaâs next thought went to Otis, the man whoâd been her familyâs slave when she was a child and her most treasured friend ever since. She should have insisted he slow down, not work so hard at his blacksmith shop. He was getting too old toâ
âDella,â Cord said. âThis is about your husband.â
A swooshing sound echoed in her ears. âIsaac?â Her knees buckled.
Solid arms caught her, hoisted her into the air, and a command, âGet the door,â sounded.
Della recognized Spencerâs voice, but couldnât muster up a protest as he carried her across the yard.
It had happened. Isaac was back.
Spencer laid her on the wicker sofa on the back porch, and Della, silently fighting the dread seeping into her bones, took a moment to rebuild her spirit before opening her eyes.
Florie stood next to her, holding a glass of water, eyes full of compassion. Della wanted to offer a smile, but her lips trembled too hard. She pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the sofa, planting her feet on the solid floor. Sheâd known this moment would come. It had been like watching a storm brew on the horizon, knowing it would hit, but wondering how severe the damages would be when it did.
Suppressing the turmoil within, she accepted the glass. âThank you.â After taking a sip, she set it down on the nearby table.
Florie sat, and wrapped a hand around Dellaâs. The silent gesture of support was endearing. Thankful she had such wonderful friends, Della asked, âWhere is he?â
âIâm sorry to tell you, Della,â Cord said sympathetically. âIsaac is dead.â
Her lungs froze, like an iron fist squeezed them closed. Dead? How could that be? It had been five years since heâd been homeâbut dead?
The silence in the room became suffocating. Della managed to draw a breath, knew they waited for her to speak. âI see.â
That was a ridiculous answer. She didnât see. Sheâd never seen what had made Isaac tick. Sheâd never understood him, not twelve years ago, and not now.
âHis death occurred a few months ago, in New Orleans. Heâs buried there,â Cord said. âI wired the authorities, and they confirmed the report.â
A strange numbness overcame her, as if she had crept into someone elseâs body. Tears pressed at her eyes, and stung her nose, but neither an overflow of pain or sorrow nor the urge to cry, rant, or scream about the injustice of it all didnât fill her. It had been so long since sheâd seen Isaac, in a way sheâd already mourned his loss, already grieved that her daughters would never have the father they deserved.
âDellaâMrs. Cramer,â Spencer said, leaning forward. âThereâs more.â