laying a slab of ham on each. âThereâre some carrot and celery sticks in the fridge,â she said, her voice wobbling with fatigue.
He made a face. âAny chips?â
âSorry.â She watched as he piled the sandwiches on a plate and set it on the table, then went to the refrigerator for the pitcher of iced tea.
âItâs okay to be weak sometimes,â he said softly, taking the seat across from hers. âTo be frightened. Itâs part of being alive.â
A shudder ran through her, and she shook her head and met his eyes. âNot from where Iâm sitting.â
He held her gaze a moment, his own inscrutable. Then he selected a sandwich and began to eat. âHow long has Ashland been your responsibility?â
âTotally mine for just over ten years. Since Daddy died. Before thatâ¦â Anna shook her head. âNever mind.â
âBefore that, what?â
She selected a carrot stick, toyed with it for a moment, then tossed it down, untasted. âAfter Mama died, Daddy needed a
lot of help with Ashland. I was the natural choice.â
He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. âAnd you didnât expect that?â
âNo. Iâ¦I thought he had everything under control. I thought he ran things. But it was always Mama. Even when we were young. So when she diedââ
âThe load shifted to you.â
âYes.â
âNo other family members around to help out?â
Lowell. Their argument came crashing back, with it a biting sense of betrayal. Anna tensed and met Rushâs eyes. âYou met my brother Lowell the other night. And Iâm sure, after having spent a week in Ames, you know a fair bit about him. Including the fact that he has no interest in Ashland.â
âI do know that,â Rush said, toying with a teaspoon. âI was referring to other relations. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Surely you and your brother arenât the last of the Ameses.â
âBut we are. Mama was the only child of only children. Daddy lost one brother when he was in his teens, the other before he and his wife had children.â
Rush frowned. âNo cousins at all? Itâs hard to believe.â
Anna arched her eyebrows. âYou must be one of those people with an army of relations.â
âActually,â Rush said quietly, âI have no one.â
No one. Something in the way he said the words, the look in his eyes as heâd said them, plucked at her heartstrings. She lifted her eyebrows in feigned outrage. âMr. Cousins, I find your curiosity most untoward.â
Rush laughed. âUntoward? I didnât think people talked like that anymore.â
She laughed. âDown here we do.â
âThatâs right. All that highfalutin language and manners.â
âAnd all that Yankee care-be-damned brashness.â
âYankee?â Rush leaned toward her, amused. âHoney, didnât anybody tell you, that war ended years ago.â
âNot down here.â She smiled and fluttered her lashes. âI was ten before I realized that damn and Yankee were two words.â
He tipped his head back and laughed. âYou all donât say?â
She patted her mouth with a napkin. âItâs yâall. And I do say.â
For a moment their eyes held, the silence between them heavy with awareness. As if uncomfortable, he caught her hand and inspected her thumb with exaggerated seriousness. After a moment, he lifted his eyes to hers. âYouâll live.â
She swallowed. âI told you.â
âThat you did.â
Instead of releasing her hand, he continued to hold it in his, moving his fingers over the delicate ridges of her knuckles, studying, exploring. Her pulse fluttered and heat moved languorously over her.
She told herself to draw her hand away from his; she hadnât the strength of will. She hadnât the desire.
He laced their fingers, meeting her gaze
Learning to Kill: Stories