Page 52 of Charlotte

For the next hour, she tried to work. She lent the primer to a young mother and helped a boy find the page on river fish for his father. She received a donated copy of Pilgrim’s Progress from Mrs. Hanford, who said it ought to be placed “where it can improve people without being overly handled.”

Every time the door opened, Lottie looked up.

Peterson did not come back.

Near supper, Delly entered the meeting hall with dust on her skirt and the pale, tired look of a woman who had seen blood and refused to be conquered by it.

Lottie rose at once. “Are you well? Is Mr. Simms?”

“Yes. A man named Holt was badly hurt. Jeb is with him and Dr. Paine now.” Delly’s mouth tightened. “He may keep the leg. He may not. It is too soon to say.”

Lottie sat back down slowly. “Oh, poor man.”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“I talked.” Delly looked faintly bewildered by the statement. “It helped.”

“Of course, it helped.”

Delly’s gaze sharpened despite her weariness. “You look wrong.”

“I used Mr. Peterson’s first name in front of the men.” Delly grew quiet. “It was an accident,” Lottie said.

“I assume so.”

“They laughed.”

Delly’s eyes moved to the ledger, then toward the open door. “How about him?”

“He corrected me and left.”

The words were small. Too small for how much they hurt. Delly sat beside her. For once, she did not immediately advise, warn, or organize the matter.

After a moment, she said, “Did you know the name was tender?”

“No.”

“Now you do.”

Lottie swallowed. “I think I should apologize.”

“Yes.”

“Should I wait?”

“No.” Delly looked toward the camp road. “If a man has been hurt at camp, they will all be raw tonight. Waiting may only give shame time to harden.”

That was not the answer Lottie wanted. It was likely the answer she needed.

She stood. “Will you come?”

Delly’s face softened. “No.”

Lottie stared at her.

“You do not need me for this,” Delly said. “If I come, you will look at me when you ought to look at him.”