Free Sweet Justice by Cynthia Reese Page A

didn’t properly introduce yourself, Ma. You used that old, ‘Just call me Ma, ’cause everyone else does.’”
    â€œSo I did. Now you really know who I am.”
    â€œI—I—” Mallory stumbled over her awkwardness. “That fried chicken you sent, and those blankets—it was a wonderful kindness.”
    Ma laid a hand on Mallory’s arm. “And you sent such a sweet thank-you note care of the fire department. People don’t bother to write thank-you notes anymore. It made my day, it did.”
    A pang of guilt coursed through Mallory. She’d written that thank-you note with gritted teeth, carefully packing it up with the cooler, as well as the blankets and pillows that she’d used her not-so-spare change to dry-clean. The shipping cost had been exorbitant in light of her scant funds, but she hadn’t wanted to keep a thing of Andrew Monroe’s.
    â€œGracious! Ma!” DeeDee had glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go pick up the kids from school!” She shot an apologetic smile toward Mallory. “Can we finish this later? I think Ma’s on the right track with this dress, but I have to go, and we’re all in the same car.”
    â€œSure,” Mallory said uncertainly. “I’ll be glad to—”
    â€œWhy not bring some of those brochures tonight and have supper with us?” Ma suggested. “I’ll look over those pictures and DeeDee and Cara can argue all they want about sequins, plus Kimberly’s coming in tonight, so we can ask her how fancy I need to be. I believe I’ll be able to think better when I’m home and not amidst all this frippery. That’s just the ticket, right?” She laid her palm against Katelyn’s thin cheek. “You could do with some fattening up, child, especially the way Maegan will work you. Say, about 6:00? Now, it’s plain fixin’s, nothing fancy.”
    â€œOh, no—” A feeling of being swallowed up by all things Monroe swept over Mallory. She even found herself taking a step back.
    Katelyn interrupted. “Sure! That sounds cool! We can hang out after my therapy session with Maegan, because it will get over about 5:30.”
    â€œYou come right on down to the farm when you get finished, and I’ll put you to work.” Ma patted Katelyn’s cheek again, and the tenderness of it reminded Mallory of how Mom used to touch her own cheek.
    No. She would not, out of stubborn pride, deprive Katelyn of any mothering she could get. Not even if it meant possibly bumping into the here-again, gone-again Andrew Monroe.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I F M ALLORY HAD thought she’d been swallowed by all things Monroe earlier, she hadn’t even been close. The house was full to bursting with dark-haired men and honey-haired women and boisterous children stair-stepping from diapers to teens.
    It also smelled divinely of fragrant steak and gravy. These people believed in eating: on the counters, they were preparing mountains of mashed potatoes, rivers of onion gravy, platters of golden biscuits, bowlfuls of green beans. Mallory’s stomach, pinched and cranky from the inadequate PB&J, quivered in anticipatory delight at such a feast.
    Her appetite convinced her to stay put while her feet wanted to run. She’d never been good in big gatherings of people—large families weren’t her forte.
    Now Katelyn on the other hand...
    Katelyn had settled into the fray as though she belonged with the Monroes. She sat at one end of the kitchen table, chopping vegetables for a salad alongside two girls about five years younger than her. She laughed and joked with them and with every other Monroe that seemed to wander through the house every five minutes. There wasn’t a shy bone in her body tonight, no sullen withdrawn quietness, no bashfulness about her wheelchair.
    No, it was Mallory who was bashful.
    She managed to wedge herself into a relatively quiet