Matthew: The Circle Eight Read Free Page B

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    “Do we have to talk about this again?” Hannah wanted to run from the house, heck from the entire town, rather than talk about her lack of a husband again. It had become a nearly daily conversation with Granny, and she was tired of it. Bad enough her own heart kept returning again and again to a fantasy it could never have.
    “Don’t sass me, child. I raised you better than that.” Sometimes Granny still treated her as a seven-year-old orphan.
    “I’m not a child, Granny. I am a grown woman and if I don’t want to talk about my obvious lack of a husband, then I damn well won’t.” Hannah almost slapped her hand across her mouth for not only backtalking but cussing, too. Yet she didn’t. It was time she stopped hiding behind a sink full of dirty dishes.
    Granny smiled at her and wagged her finger. “Now you sound like me.”
    They both broke out laughing and Hannah sat down beside her, pulling her grandmother into a hug.
    A surge of love and concern for Granny flooded through Hannah. Her grandmother was getting old—heck, she was old at sixty-two, which meant she would be getting sick more often. They couldn’t afford a doctor and that meant Granny wouldn’t even tell Hannah if she felt sick.
    Shaking off her disturbing thoughts, Hannah got to her feet. “Everything okay now?”
    “Pshaw. On with you now, young’un. You’d better get to making that stew or we won’t eat dinner until supper.”
    Hannah went back to the kitchen, shaking her head and hoping she was that much of a curmudgeon at sixty-two.
    Making the stew brought some order back into her scattered thoughts. She cut up the carrots and onions, then pulled out the sack of turnips from the pantry.
    “Damn.” The curse was under her breath so she wouldn’t have to endure any reprimand.
    There were only three turnips to feed twelve people. Hannah vaguely remembered telling herself to get more at the store, but she had forgotten to add it to her list. And now she didn’t have enough to make dinner for everyone. She had a little bit of time, perhaps a half hour, to get to the store and then get back.
    Hannah dried her hands quickly, then took off her apron. “I’m going to the store, Granny. Be right back.” Luckily she had a dollar in her reticule, which she grabbed from beneath the sink.
    As she headed out the door, she tripped and fell down the two steps, landing squarely on her knees in a mud puddle. She cursed again, this time a bit more loudly, then got to her feet and looked down at her mud-spattered skirt.
    It wasn’t her best garment, but it had been clean. Until now. She would change later. For now she’d just have to endure people staring and possibly pointing at her. It wasn’t the ideal situation but there was no help for it.
    She hurried down the street, nodding at folks who glanced her way. Who cared if she had flour on her blouse, mud on her skirt, and a grimace on her face? It had already been a bit of an unlucky day for her. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
    Matthew stared at the collection of rifles for sale. He had his father’s to use, and had given his old one to Nicholas, but Caleb needed a gun. They were so doggone expensive though. He didn’t want to choose between food and a weapon, although with a rifle he could get food.
    It was Saturday again, and he’d had three days to mull over the pickle he was in. So far, he hadn’t come up with any solution other than finding a wife named Hannah in the next twenty-seven days. Easier said than done. Most of the women in town were married, and the ones who weren’t were either too young or too old. And he didn’t know of one named Hannah who wasn’t married.
    The bell over the door to the store tinkled and he heard a muffled curse, then a slam. Matthew peered around the display to see Caleb sprawled on the floor while a woman bent over with her hand outstretched to help him up.
    “I don’t need no help,” his little brother snapped.
    “I’m