She watched him go, Mr. Benton’s accusations still ringing in her ears. “I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

He stopped short. “I know, Emily. I know.”

* * *

The next day, Emily tried drawing Ginny out of her solemn mood by drilling her on the multiplication facts.

They sat outside on the veranda. It was a warm day, and the air was thick with the smell of sunbaked earth. “What’s seven times three?” Emily asked.

Ginny pulled her gaze from the direction of a noisy scrub jay. “Will Alice come back?”

Emily sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe…one day.”

“Her pa said you were a bad person. I don’t believe that. Mama doesn’t believe it either.”

Emily took Ginny’s hand in hers. “Alice’s pa was just angry. Sometimes when people are angry, they say things they don’t mean.”

“I hope I never do that,” Ginny said. “I hope I never say things I don’t mean.”

“You know what?” Emily released Ginny’s hand with a squeeze. “It’s almost noon, and I heard that Cookie was making your favorite chicken.”

A mischievous smile curved Ginny’s mouth. “You mean son-of-a-gun chicken.”

Emily laughed. “Run along, and we’ll practice some more later.”

Ginny jumped up and made her way into the house. Emily was about to follow when she heard Kansas Pete call her name.

She waited as he shuffled bowlegged across the yard, hat in hand.

Reaching the porch, he nodded in greeting. “Don’t mean to bother you, ma’am, but I’m what you might call the designated speaker.”

Emily tilted her head. “Oh?”

“Yes, ma’am. The boys and me done drew straws, and I got the short end.” He cleared his voice. “You haven’t been comin’ around our campfires, and the boys and me… Well, we miss you.”

Touched by his words, Emily swallowed the lump in her throat. “That’s very kind of you to say, Kansas Pete.”

“Oh, I’m not sayin’ it to be kind. It’s true. When you’re not there, I have to dance with Beanpole Tom, and all he does is crunch leather.”

Emily laughed. Beanpole Tom did tend to step on his dance partner’s feet. She grew serious. “I didn’t think…you’d want me there, knowing my true identity.”

“Shucks, ma’am. We don’t care who you was. We just care who you is. You’re the lady who saved the ole homestead, and for that, we’re mighty obliged.” He tilted his head. “So, what do you say about attendin’ the campfire tonight?”

How could she turn down an offer like that? “It would be my pleasure.”

A smile crinkled his whiskered face. “The boys will be mighty pleased to hear that, ma’am. And so will my feet.”

Looking like a preacher who had made his first convert, he walked away whistling to himself.

The door opened behind her, followed by Cookie’s voice. “Ready for some chow?”

She wasn’t hungry, but not wanting to disappoint him, she nodded. “Can’t wait.”

Her attempt to sound enthusiastic apparently failed, for Cookie afforded her a look of sympathy. “I hope you’re not still stewin’ over what happened yesterday,” he said.