“Some things women aren’t built for.” It’s not what I believe. Not remotely, but I’m out of other explanations.
Her eyes cast to the side. “Tell that to Mags.” Knowledge edges her words, and our eyes lock. “You’re just as stubborn as she is, you know.”
Older, too. But I catch myself before speaking out of turn. “Set in my ways is all. And why you keep pairing Mags and me together in sentences, I’ll never figure out.”
“Because you’re friends,” she says, face impassive. “Like-minded, like-tempered?—”
“Like-bred?”
She lets out a little sigh, looking away as if she’s not interested. But I know she is. Curiosity seeps from her bones.
After a long pause, she asks. “Can I offer you a shower and clean clothes? A home-cooked meal?”
“Part of the deal,” I grunt. “The meal, I mean.”
“All of it, really. Every part that goes with lodging.”
“You saying I should clean up, boss?”
She crinkles her nose. “I’m saying your clothes could make a scarecrow without a broom. Stiff enough to stand alone. And smell? No offense, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to drive me away.”
The last remark hits too close.
“Can barely think ahead to the next meal, let alone next day. But if it’s part of the job, I’ll do it,” I excuse.
“It is,” she says like her word is final. “And you don’t need to call me boss.”
“What do I call you, then?”
“Eliza’s still fine.”
Chapter
Eight
ELIZA
Apile of dirty clothes greets me at the mudroom door. A black button-down shirt, dusty and caked with sweat. My thumb rubs over the collar, marveling at the tiny hand-stitched seams.
Like something from a museum—about as threadbare. I find a black thermal, too. Not as old, but still well past its prime, and a pair of jeans that look like they barely made it into this century.
No socks. No underwear.
No sound of the shower upstairs, either.
After the wash churns, I head upstairs, knocking lightly on his door.
“I can get you a towel or a bathrobe if you need it?”
Nothing.
Not a squeaky floorboard. Not a shift of weight on the bed.
I turn the knob, inch the door open and find what I expected—no signs of settling in.
I cross to the window, pulling back the sheer white curtains just enough. Outside, behind bubbly old glass, I make out a fleshy form.
My throat tightens, pulse jumping. At the old watering hole by the willow tree with its green branches bent low, I see him up to his chest in the water, a bar of soap in hand, scrubbing a sock.
