Morning Glory Read Online Free

catching his thumb in a back pocket again.
    She knew right off he was a man of few words; that’d suit her just fine. Even when she gave him the chance he didn’t ask questions like most men would. So she went on asking them herself.
    “You been around here long?”
    “Four days.”
    “Four days where?”
    “Been workin’ at the sawmill.”
    “Workin’ for Overmire?”
    Will nodded.
    “He’s no good. You’re better off workin’ here.” She glanced in a semicircle and went on: “I been here all my life, in Whitney.”
    She didn’t sigh, but she didn’t need to. He heard the weariness in her words as she scanned the dismal yard. Her eyes returned to him and she rested one knobby hand on her stomach. When she spoke again her voice held a hint of puzzlement. “Mister, I’ve had that ad up at the sawmill for over three months now and you’re the first one fool enough to come up that hill and check it out. I know what this place is. I know what I am. Down below they call me crazy.” Her head jutted forward. “Did you know that?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he answered quietly.
    Her face registered surprise, then she chuckled. “Honest, ain’t you? Well, I’m just wondering why you ain’t run yet, is all.”
    He crossed his arms and shifted his weight to the opposite hip. She had the shoe on the wrong foot. Once she found out about his record he’d be marching down that road faster than a roach when the light comes on. Telling her was as good as putting a shotgun in her hands. But she was bound to find out eventually; might as well get it over with.
    “Maybe you should be the one runnin’.”
    “Why’s that?”
    Will Parker looked her square in the eyes. “I done time in prison. You might’s well know it, right off.”
    He expected quick signs of withdrawal. Instead Eleanor Dinsmore pursed her mouth and said in an ornery tone, “I says to take that hat off so’s I can see what kind of man I’m talkin’ to here.”
    He took it off slowly, revealing a countenance wiped clean of all emotion.
    “What’d they put you in there for?” She could tell by the nervous tap of his hat brim on his thigh that he wanted to put it back on. It pleased her that he didn’t.
    “They say I killed a woman in a Texas whorehouse.”
    His answer stunned her, but she could be as poker-faced ashe. “Did you?” she shot back, watching his unflinching eyes. The control. The expressionlessness. He swallowed once and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    She submerged another jolt of surprise and asked, “Did you have good reason?”
    “I thought so at the time.”
    Point-blank, she asked, “Well, Will Parker, you plan on doing that to me?”
    The question caught Will by surprise and tipped up the corners of his lips. “No, ma’am,” he answered quietly.
    She stared hard into his eyes, came two steps closer and decided he didn’t look like a killer, nor act like one. He was sure no liar, and he had a workingman’s arms and wasn’t going to gab her head off. It was good enough for her.
    “Okay, then, you can come on up to the house. They say I’m crazy anyway, might’s well give ‘em something to back it up.” She picked up the baby, herded the toddler along by the back of his head and led the way toward the house. The toddler peeked around to see if Will was following; the baby stared over its mother’s shoulder; but the mother herself turned her back as if to say, do what you will, Will Parker.
    She walked like a pelican, swaying with each step in an ungainly fashion. Her hair was dull, her shoulders round and her hips wide.
    The house was a tacky thing, atilt in several directions at once. It looked to have been built in stages, each addition blown slightly off level by the prevailing wind of the moment. The main body listed northeast, an ell west and the stoop east. The windows were off square, there were tin patches on the roof, and the porch steps were rotting.
    But inside it smelled of fresh