She nearly corrected him, then stopped. Both sisters were Miss Hart.
"You wanting coffee?" It was the first thing that came into her head.
Something shifted near the corner of his mouth. "No, ma'am."
"Apple cake?"
"No."
She waited. The fiddle player lifted his bow again. Around them, conversation was thinning in an odd widening circle.
Rachel became aware of the flour on her sleeve, then the coffee stain, then her hair, which had begun coming loose above her left ear an hour earlier. Matthew put his hat on the nearest chair. George took one step toward them. Lillian didn't move at all.
Matthew walked around the end of the supper table. Rachel's stomach tightened. He stopped directly in front of her. Not Lillian.
Her.
The first notes of a waltz drifted uncertainly from the fiddle. Matthew looked down at Rachel, then extended one enormous hand between them. "Rachel Hart," he said. "Would you give me this dance?"
Three months earlier, Rachel Hart had stopped believing any man would ever ask. The Hart Farm sat four miles west of Cedar Ridge, where the wagon road narrowed between low ridges and scattered cottonwoods. In winter, snow collected against the north fence until the rails disappeared. In summer, dust worked its way into every hinge, saddle blanket, and window crack.
Rachel knew every inch of it. She knew which gate sagged after rain. She knew the south well needed priming twice before sunrise. She knew the gray mare in the second paddock would kick if approached from her left side.
She knew that the old bay gelding could loosen almost any knot tied within reach of his teeth. Most mornings, Rachel was outside before her father. That particular January morning began with the sound of a bucket striking the side of the pump. The sky was still dark.
Rachel stood in wool stockings, work boots, and an old brown skirt tucked slightly at one side so it would not drag through the frozen yard. Her coat would not close properly across her middle anymore. She had stopped fighting the buttons and simply wore a knitted scarf beneath it. The pump groaned.
Water finally came. She filled the bucket, carried it toward the barn, and found George Hart already standing in the doorway with a folded paper in his hand.
"You seen this?"
Rachel set down the bucket. "What is it?"
"Feed receipt."
She took it from him. The paper was creased and smudged where his thumb had been. "$6.80."
"That's what I said."
"No. You said the mill overcharged you."
"They did."
Rachel read the line again. "Twenty sacks oats, six sacks bran, wagon fee."
George frowned. "I know how to read."
"I know."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm not." She turned the paper over. There it was, a notation in pencil.
"Mr. Daly charged for delivery because you sent Eli home early."
George's mouth tightened. "Eli had other work."
"He had work here."
"He was moving slow."
Rachel handed back the receipt. "If we pick up the next order ourselves, we save seventy cents."
George folded the paper again. "You planning to drive into town?"
"If it needs doing."
He gave a short grunt. "Write it down."
"I already did."
That made him look at her. Rachel had a small ledger tucked beneath one arm. She opened it. January feed, farrier, lamp oil, replacement trace chain, two dollars by Mr. Collins for stud service.
George squinted at the pages. "You're always writing something."
"Someone has to remember it."
He looked as though he might answer. Instead, he shoved the receipt into his pocket and walked toward the house. Rachel watched him go.