There’s no proof Hiram murdered my parents—not unless I lay my secret bare, the one I swore to Mama and Daddy I’d never reveal. There’s nothing I can do.
Well, maybe there is one thing.
I’ll wait for you in Independence.
I return to the house and discover that several people dropped off food before heading back to their own homes. I count three jars of jam, two baskets full of biscuits, a meat pie, some baked ham and smashed potatoes. More than I can possibly eat. Warmth swells in my chest, surprising me. The people of Dahlonega are a gossipy, small-minded lot, but we’ve always taken care of our own.
Boots tromp up the stairs outside. The braid rug covering our hidey-hole has puckered at the edge. Quick as a snake, I put my toe out and stomp the wrinkle down. I almost laugh aloud at myself. Hiram already stole my gold. Keeping secrets is such a habit.
He doesn’t even knock, just swings the front door wide and strides inside like the house has been waiting for him. He whips off his gloves and whacks them against his thigh, sending powdery snow falling to the floor.
I don’t bother to hide my glare. “Hang your hat and coat there by the door,” I say, indicating the iron hooks in the wall.
“What culinary delights are conspiring to make my mouth water?”
If he’s trying to sound like a fine Southern gentleman, he’s failing. “I don’t know. Whatever folks left for us?”
“I smell baked ham,” he says, shrugging off his overcoat. “Fix a plate for me?”
I consider storming off, but I can’t shake my upbringing. When you have a guest in your house, you fix them something to eat. I grab a clean plate from the hutch and cut him a slice of ham, then surround it with potatoes and biscuits. I hope he chokes on the first bite.
Hiram makes himself at home. He has a heavier step and quicker movements than my daddy, and the tobacco scent of him swells, pushing everything out of its way, making the air of my home seem unfamiliar and strange. He settles into Daddy’s chair by the cold box stove, and I put the plate on the side table next to him.
“Help me with my boots,” he says.
My gut churns as I approach, careful like a cat. I kneel at his feet, and my fingers squelch in lingering mud as I grab and yank. The boots come loose easily enough that he could have done it himself. He sits back, sighing like a man well and truly satisfied. “Thank you, sweet pea.”
I ignore him, setting the boots by the door. I wipe my hands on a rag. Then, standing straight as I can, my chin in the air but my face as void as a snow-blanked hill, I ask the question that’s been squeezing my soul: “How long are you going to stay?”
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.”
He frowns. “That barn is the cleanest I ever saw.”
“Because I don’t shirk my daily chores.”
We stare at each other, our chins set equally hard, and the thought niggles like a worm in my belly: Maybe we are alike. Maybe just a little.
Finally, he says, “You’re too valuable to waste on farmwork, Leah. I know what you can do. And I intend you to keep on doing it.”
I do a stink-poor job of keeping the shock off my face. Daddy told him. Hiram knows about me. My knees turn as wobbly as pudding. I need to get away to the barn fast, before I fall apart completely.
“But when my boy gets here, I’ll start making a lady out of you. I know Reuben and Elizabeth let you run wild as a colt, but no longer.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I care about you, Leah Westfall. More than you know. I’ll make sure you have the best of everything. The best gowns, the best grooming, the best—”
I walk out and slam the door behind me.