She flinched. Years ago, her father had tried to make Charlie eat separately from them after the boy had first arrived. Her mother hadn’t stood for it. Figurative coals burned atop her head. “Ben can join us for dinner if he wants.”
“He’ll want to.” Charlie grinned, gave her a quick hug, and bounded toward the hallway.
“Wait.” She waved him back.
He pivoted. “Yes?”
She shouldn’t ask, but she did, voice lowered. “Did Ben stop at any other stores other than the mercantile and the livery stable today? Like the druggist?”
“No. Just the blacksmith’s. Only, he paced back and forth a couple of times in the block across from the druggist.”
“But he didn’t go in?”
“No. Was he supposed to? He finally said he had to go to the post office to mail a couple of letters, and I went with him.”
A quickruff-ruffsounded in the front yard.
Charlie fidgeted. “I’ve got to go check on Jack.”
“Go ahead.” She touched his shoulder and turned back to the kitchen.
Ben had been tempted but hadn’t given in. At least not this time. She hugged herself. What was she doing allowing him to come to dinner? Was she insane? Why had the Lord allowed this man to come into their lives?
What if she and Charlie could make a difference in Ben’s life?
Foolish thought. How many times had her mother clung to that same hope?
CHAPTER 11
Seated in the Scott kitchen, Ben savored a sip of coffee and soaked in the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth. Even if Cora adamantly refused to meet his gaze, she’d at least invited him to share a meal with them, an unexpected blessing. Maybe tonight, he’d actually be able to sleep instead of the restless tossing and turning half wakefulness which had plagued him for weeks.
This rustic kitchen was a world away from the chandelier, polished cherry table, silver serving set, and imported carpet of his family’s dining room, with Olivia a short carriage ride away. Was she still angry with him? She’d come to the train station to see him off with pouty lips and had given him no more than a peck on the cheek. She was probably accepting gentleman callers in his absence to spite him. And if she wasn’t, she would be after she received his letter explaining that Jeb’s family was destitute and the situation would take months to remedy. A letter in which he hadn’t been able to cough up the wordlove, but had barely managedmy dearestandsoon to be betrothed. A letter in which he neglected to mention that Jeb’s mother had passed and left his twenty-four-year-old sister in charge.
He glanced Cora’s way and ventured into uncharted territory. “Finest coffee I ever tasted.”
She arched an eyebrow and set a plate of food in front of him. “A luxury.”
“True.” Getting this woman to accept anything from him, even a small compliment, was as challenging as marching uphill in mud. “At Andersonville, I dreamed of having a sip of coffee. The only thing better were my dreams of a chunk of freshly baked bread, hard on the outside and soft inside.” His mouth watered at the memory.
“You dreamed about bread?” Charlie quirked his mouth to the side, his bangs falling across his forehead.
“Even the thought of it made my stomach feel a little fuller.” Ben inhaled the aroma of beans busting their seams interspersed with ham. “We used to spend hours planning the first meal we’d have after we were freed.”
“I’d like to hear more about Andersonville.” Cora sat down across from him with a direct glance.
First time he had her earnest attention since the bottle incident, and his words dried up. His gaze fell on the cornbread in the middle of the table. “I’ll tell you one thing. Your cornbread may be the best in the county as far as I know, but I don’t know if I can eat it. They fed us green corn at the prison camp. Didn’t bother taking the husks out. Just ground it up, baked it, and gave it to us and little else.”
Charlie scrunched up his nose. “Didn’t that taste terrible?”
He shouldn’t say it, but he did. “There were men willing to eat shoe leather and worse.” Hunger that gnawed a man’s stomach inside out and then started on his soul.
Cora sucked in a breath.
Charlie gaped at him. “Wouldn’t that hurt their teeth? I’ve heard that my mother’s people drink buffalo blood, or if they’re really thirsty, they might drink their own?—”
“Charlie.” Cora shot the boy a deep frown.
“I just want to know what the prisoners ate.” Charlie stuffed a spoonful of rice in his mouth.
