Backlands Read Online Free Page A

ribbon. The other medal was the Croix de Guerre, from the French government, awarded for feats of arms.
    CJ had been a war hero. Just about everybody in Las Cruces knew the story of how he’d run away from home, lied about his age, and became the youngest sergeant in his regiment before shipping overseas. It always filled Matt with pride and sadness whenever folks talked about his brother. He intended to be a soldier like CJ when he grew up, but he knew better than to say anything to Ma, who would surely give him what for about it.
    At home, although keen to learn what Ma was fixing for dinner, he checked on Patches first, laid down fresh straw, broke the ice on the water trough, and fed him a bucketful of oats. After dinner he’d muck out the stall before starting in on his homework.
    He stepped inside and shucked his coat. The delicious smell of a roasting chicken made his mouth water and his stomach grumble. He called out to Ma but got no answer. She wasn’t in the kitchen, but a fresh-baked, delicious-looking peach pie sat on the table. A slice had been cut out and left on a plate as a snack. He wolfed it down and looked for her in the sitting room and her bedroom. With his heart thumping with worry he called out to her again and knocked hard on the closed bathroom door.
    â€œMa, are you in there?” he asked, his voice rising.
    â€œYes, give me a minute.”
    Matt held back a sigh of relief. “Are you okay?”
    â€œYes. Go set the table for me.”
    Matt hesitated. She sounded okay, but should he ask again? Sometimes Ma said things just to keep him from fretting.
    â€œGo on, now,” Emma said from behind the closed door.
    â€œOkay.”
    Emma smiled at herself in the mirror as Matthew’s footsteps receded. She’d prettied herself up, brushed her hair, and changed into a fresh blouse for dinner. It was going to be a wonderful evening meal with Matthew, and not just because she was feeling so much better and so lively. The mail had brought an astonishing surprise that would surely delight him as it had her.
    She glanced again in the mirror, pleased with the results. Ever since her divorce, CJ and Matt had been the only men in her life, although it wasn’t for a lack of flattering attention from the likes of Henry Bowman and a few other married men about town she knew. If she’d lived elsewhere—in a big city such as New York—it might have been different and she could have taken a lover. That was impossible to do in Las Cruces without inviting harsh criticism. Still, even with that disadvantage, she had what most women lacked: the freedom to live independently, answerable to no man. So she’d schooled herself to be virtuous. Given her lusty nature, it had been no easy task.
    Matthew had eaten his snack and set the table for dinner. She found him sprawled on his stomach across his bed, nose in a book.
    â€œIt’s about the French and Indian Wars,” he explained as she sat beside him, “for a book report.”
    â€œI’ll want to know all about it once you finish.”
    Matt nodded as he looked up at her. “You look pretty.”
    â€œThank you. Now will you stop worrying about me?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œHungry?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œThen let’s eat. After dinner I have a surprise to show you.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œYou’ll see.”
    ***
    M atthew devoured his dinner, topped off by two slices of the peach pie, which he praised with each bite, and left to tend to Patches. Emma busied herself with the dishes, impatiently waiting for his return. Finished, she took the magazine, letter, and book that had arrived in the mail, sat at the table, and reread the letter from Gene Rhodes.
    Dear Emma:
    This is not a letter—it’s an apology. It took this old yarn spinner more years than he’d like to admit to whip “Emma Makes a Hand” into a good enough story to get published. But