“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you have it anyway.”
He clears his throat and sets his hat on the counter like he is committing to staying.
“I am closing my shop tomorrow,” he says.
I stare at him.
“For the rest of the week,” he continues. “Maybe longer.”
“That is a foolish business decision,” I tell him bluntly.
“Probably,” he admits. “But folks around here are creatures of habit. They will either come to you or they will do without. I reckon hunger and inconvenience are stronger motivators than gossip.”
I search his face for mockery or calculation and find neither.
“Why,” I ask finally.
He exhales slowly.
“This town needs reminding that cruelty has consequences. And because I’m tired of watching decent men pretend not to notice when others are being run off.”
Something shifts in my chest. I don’t thank him yet. I’m not sure I trust the moment.
Luther’s gaze drops to the ledger on the counter.
“You married her quick,” he says. “Takes guts to stake your whole life on someone that way.”
“Best decision I ever made,” I reply.
He nods once, as if that answers a question he has not yet asked.
Silence stretches between us, no longer sharp but heavy with things unsaid.
“She is Anna Benson’s cousin,” I say at last.
“I knew I should have been nicer to that woman,” Luther mutters.
“You should have,” I agree. “Of course, I can ask if either of them knows any other woman who might be on the market for a husband.”
He looks up sharply.
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Even after…” He trails off, his ears reddening.
“Yes,” I repeat.
Luther clears his throat awkwardly and picks up his hat.
“Thank you,” he says.
When he leaves, the store is still quiet, but it doesn’t feel like I am standing alone against the town.
Rose
