She waited until Hank straightened, then looked him in the eye. “You toss away clothing, a hair brush, combs, and ribbons, claiming they are useless. But you keep a deck of playing cards?”
He shrugged. “I don’t need hair ribbons.”
“But Lydia does.”
Hank looked at Lydia. “What’s she blubbering about now?”
“She’s hurting.”
“Yeah, well, she’d better learn to get over it.”
Margaret shook her head in disgust. He wasn’t going to help her in that quarter. She looked at the girl standing beside the goat, stroking its coat.
Margaret started toward her but stopped when Lydia turned to look at her. They watched each other for a moment. As if Lydia could read her thoughts, she stiffened, then she spun around, presenting her back.
It stopped Margaret in her tracks. She wanted to help but didn’t know how. She decided to give the girl a little time alone and herself some time to try to analyze the situation and come up with some way to try to reach the girl.
Margaret glanced back at Hank who was tossing things into piles so swiftly she had to blink. She moved closer. In his keeper pile were dice, a flint, a pistol, a pocketknife, a pair of black pants, and a belt. All but the dice were useful items.
It still annoyed her that he’d tossed aside things she and Lydia could have used. She started to turn back but stopped when she saw another stack of things. “What’s that pile for?”
“You.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s your stuff. Things women need.”
There were a few pots and pans and some skillets, a scrub brush, and a small hand broom—the type a maid used to brush clothing—a flat iron, a sewing basket, and a cap and apron.
She crossed her arms. “I don’t clean. I can’t sew and I can’t cook.”
“You’re a smart woman. With a brain andan education. You’ll learn.” He paused. “Remember, counselor, in your own words: Man hunt. Ugh! Woman cook.”
“I’m used to having my words thrown back at me by men who think they are superior.”
“I don’t thinkI’m superior.” He stood there rubbing his black beard. “I know it.”
She watched him for a moment. He scratched his neck again.
“You know, a little soap might help.”
He looked at her. “Might help what?”
She gave his beard a pointed look. “Your itch.” His cocky gaze poured over her slowly, then he gave her a perfectly lascivious grin.
She cast a quick glance at the children, who were a small distance away, then leaned close enough for him to hear her whisper. “Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” His voice was dripping with feigned innocence.
“Whatever it was you were thinking.”
He laughed obnoxiously. “You think enough for all of us. I don’t think, sweetheart. Ido.”
She could have sworn she saw his chest swell. No doubt his head did.
She reached into the trunk she’d been going through and whapped a leather case into his hands. “Then here.Dothis.”
He stared at the case.
