Deborah Camp Read Free Page B

funny?”
    “This is a mighty good idea, Mrs. Hathaway,” Sheriff Warwick said with another laugh. “It’s right smart to get things in writing so’s there’s no mistaking who’s boss and who ain’t.”
    “What does it say?”
    “It lists your chores,” Sheriff Warwick said, still laughing under this breath.
    “Which are?”
    The sheriff took a deep breath before reading from the document, “‘He shall rise at four in the morning, feed the mules, and clean the stable. While they are feeding he is to get the harness ready, which will take him about two hours. Then he is to have breakfast, for which half an hour is allowed.’”
    “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Grandy Adams mumbled, casting Zanna a wary glance.
    “There’s more,” the sheriff said cheerily and continued, “‘Getting the harness on the mules, he is to start by seven to his work and keep at it ’til between two or three in the afternoon. Then he shall bring the team in, clean them and give them their food, dine himself, and at four go back to the mules and give them more fodder, andgetting into the barn, make ready their food for the next day, not forgetting to see them again before going to his own supper at six.’”
    “Oh, so I get three meals a day? Well, that’s more than I got in this fleabag.”
    “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Sheriff Warwick shot back, then focused his attention on the paper again. “‘After supper, he is to mend his shoes and other clothing by the fireside, or repair bridles and harnesses, or stamp apples or crabs for cider or verjuice, or else grind corn and the like, or some husbandly office within doors ’til it befall eight o’clock.’”
    “Sounds like you need a slave instead of a husband.” He shot her a vicious glare. “A war was fought that abolished slavery. Were you out of the country during that time?”
    Zanna avoided his eyes, but felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe he was right. Perhaps Theo Booker had been overly zealous in listing the duties of her contracted husband.
    “There’s more,” the sheriff said with a wicked grin. “‘Then he shall take his lantern, visit the mules once more, and go to the barn to rest for the night.’”
    “The barn? I’m supposed to work my butt off all day and then sleep in the barn with the animals? You’re plumb nuts, lady.”
    “You shut your trap before I backhand you,” the sheriff warned. “Mrs. Hathaway, he’s got a point. This law provides for husbands and he’s not one according to this. Husbands don’t sleep in barns, ma’am.”
    “Right,” Grandy Adams spoke up with a jaunty grin. “Husbands don’t—Hey!” He ducked from the sheriff’s arcing hand, but the hand still made contact with the top of his head.
    “Don’t strike him!”
    Zanna’s shrill command acted like an arctic wind freezing everything in its path. The sheriff’s hand remained suspended. Grandy Adams’s arms were up, shielding hisface from further blows, but his gaze moved unerringly to Zanna and there was curiosity in his greenish-gold eyes. Zanna pulled herself upright and forced her jumbled nerves to settle.
    “Please, sheriff, don’t hit him. It’s entirely uncalled for.” She directed her attention to the other man. “Will you sign or won’t you?”
    “I don’t like the sleeping arrangements,” he told her, a questioning glint still lingering in his eyes.
    “Very well.” She stepped closer, trailing invisible violets after her. “I’ll omit that part, but the rest remains as is.” She took the pen, dipped it into the well, and drew a line through the offending section. “Now please sign it. Preacher Timmons is waiting for us.”
    He took the pen, dipped it again, and signed his name in bold fashion. Zanna looked at the name before she handed the document and pen to the sheriff for his witnessing signature.
    “Grandville Quincy Adams,” Zanna said as she tucked the signed agreement into her purse. “That’s a grandiose