“Mrs. Whitfield.” Not a question. An identification.
“Mr. Mercer.” Clara set her carpetbag down carefully, as if sudden movements might break the air. “Clara Whitfield. The stage—”
“You’re here.” His gaze flicked past her toward the road, then back. “That all you brought?”
“I have a trunk. The driver left it at the crossroads.”
Something tightened near his mouth. Annoyance, maybe, or fatigue that had stopped bothering to disguise itself. “I’ll fetch it before supper. Come inside. I’ll show you the kitchen.”
He turned as if the conversation had already reached its maximum allowable length. Clara followed him into the dim interior, and the first thing she noticed was not what was present, but what was missing. No laughter. No running feet overhead. No argument drifting down the stairs. No life.
