“I’m Eleanor Hart. I came from Springfield, Illinois, if that’s what you mean.”
Something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Recognition mixed with discomfort.
He wrapped the nails in brown paper, slow and careful. “You planning to stay out there?”
“That depends. Is there a law against stubbornness in this county?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, though he tried not to let it. “Not yet.”
As he totaled her purchases, the door opened behind her and two women entered. Eleanor did not turn, but she heard the whisper anyway.
“That’s her.”
“The one he wrote to.”
“Lord help her.”
The words were soft. The pity was not.
