He pulls a pipe from the breast pocket of his vest. It’s carved with vines, and the sick-sweet scent of tobacco gets even stronger, though the pipe remains unlit. He contemplates it a moment, smiles a small, secret smile, then shoves it back into his pocket. “Forever, Leah,” he says finally. “This is my home now.”

“It belongs to me. Daddy left it to me in his will.” My fists clench at my sides again. “You know it. You’re the one who drew it up.”

“He left this homestead—everything—to me,” he says.

I open my mouth, close it. Try again. I imagine I look like a brook trout, tossed onto the bank and gasping.

His voice gentles. “You need proof; I can see that.” He puts his stockinged feet up on Daddy’s stool and leans back. “My boy will be here soon with all my belongings. When he arrives, I’ll unpack my office first and show you my brother’s will, signed by Reuben himself.”

It takes a moment for me to realize “boy” refers to his slave. If Daddy knew that his brother owned slaves . . .

My eyes prick with tears all over again. I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t.

“Be reasonable, sweet pea. Such a will would have been invalid, anyway. The law, in its wisdom, protects the weaker sex from the hardships and vicissitudes that attend the ownership of property.”

“I’m not weak.”

“Of course not. You’re a Westfall.” His smile is all teeth. “But you are a young lady, one who has just suffered a terrible tragedy, no less. It’s a good thing I came when I did.”

“Why? So you can . . .” I almost say “kill me too.” “So you can take what doesn’t belong to you?” I finish lamely.

“It’s mine, lawfully and morally. And so are you, sweet pea. My very own charge.” His gaze on me softens. It’s the same look of affection Daddy gave me when he said I had a strong heart, and it chills my bones.

“This is a hard time for you; I understand that,” he continues. “But you and I, we are much alike, I think. We’re going to get on swimmingly.” Keeping his eyes on me, he picks up his plate, stabs the ham with a fork, and crams the first large bite into his mouth.

I ignore him, pulling on my own boots—Daddy’s castoffs from years ago—and head toward the door. I have plans to make.

“Where are you going?”

I whirl to find Uncle Hiram still peering at me. He seems nervous all of a sudden, and I’m pleased to have shaken that smug composure, though I’m not sure how I did it.

“I’m going to muck stalls.”

“That’s man’s work.”

“There’s no man here willing to work, far as I can see.”