Chapter 4
After that night, I stayed at Ethan Shaw’s place.
The house was tiny—just two beds. Winnie and I shared the room in back; Ethan slept out front like some grumpy bear with a rifle. He had a few acres of farmland and stuck to the grind like clockwork: out at sunrise, back at dusk, dirt on his hands and muscles in motion.
I stayed home, cleaned up after him, taught Winnie her ABCs, braided her hair in cute little knots, and stitched up dresses from scraps. It wasn’t much, but it felt like something real.
Winnie wasn’t actually his daughter—she was his dead brother’s kid—but Ethan raised her like his own. And now she was mine too.
But folks in town talk. Especially when there’s a new pretty face and no ring on her finger.
Every time I went down to the river to wash clothes, I heard it—sharp-tongued gossip bouncing off the creek stones:
“That the gal Ethan bought from somewhere back East?”
“Skin like porcelain—bet she cost a fortune.”
“She looks like trouble. My husband damn near snapped his neck watchin’ her bend over that washbin. Dirty old bastard.”
I kept my head down, scrubbing so hard the skin on my palms went raw. I wanted to scream that Ethan didn’t buy me. He gave me a roof. I gave him chores. That’s it. Fair deal.
But one look at their mean little eyes, and I swallowed it all down.
Mrs. Lee was the ringleader—richest woman in town ‘cause her daughter made a name for herself up in D.C., running some fancy tea trade or whatever. No one dared cross her.
She strutted up the riverbank, loud and smug. “Ain’t said a word, has she? Maybe the girl’s slow. Hah!”
Someone else chimed in, “Pretty don’t mean smart. Might be dumb as a mule.”
I dropped my laundry stick, stood up straight, and met their stares. “I’m not stupid.”
Mrs. Lee cupped her ear. “What’s that? Mosquito buzzin’?”
I clenched my jaw, squared my shoulders just like Ethan did when he was pissed, and shouted:
“I said I’m not stupid! And I’m not some mail-order bride Ethan bought off a damn catalog!”
