Free Prairie Song by JODI THOMAS Page A

then closed it and took her chance to leave. She grabbed Grayson’s shirtsleeve and pulled him forward. Grayson followed, swearing under his breath. The men had called him first a reb and then feebleminded. Nothing more humiliating could possibly happen today.
    When they reached the end of the walk, he heaved a sigh of relief and turned to find Margaret marching into the barbershop like it was just the place she’d been looking for all morning.
    He could do nothing but follow. When Grayson followed through the door with his packages, to his amazement, she was telling the barber how to cut his hair.
    Anger sizzled in him like frost on a fresh-lit stove. Every man in the shop turned and stared at him like he was some huge retarded child who had to have his mother come in with him. Those who had seen the scene in the street a few minutes before were relating it to the others as all eyes stared at Grayson with pity.
    Margaret paid no attention to their stares. “Go ahead and give him a shave after you cut his hair. I swear he looks like he hasn’t seen a proper razor in a month.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” The barber bowed. “I’ll get to him right away; these other gentlemen won’t mind waiting. If you’ll come back in fifteen minutes, your man will be all fixed up.”
    Margaret nodded and whirled. “I’ll be across at the bank.” She patted Grayson’s arm as she’d done since they’d met, only now the slight touch was a slap to his pride and not a comfort to him.
    Without responding, Grayson dropped the bags on an empty chair and sat down in front of the barber. A second later, a warm towel slapped his face, soothing the burn of his anger and embarrassment. “Forget every kind word I ever thought about that woman,” he swore to himself beneath the towel. “When I’m finished telling her what I think there won’t be enough of her left to fill a snuffbox. Damned if she isn’t the maddeningest creature God ever made on either side of the Mason-Dixon line.”
    He continued to swear to himself as the barber worked. After some time, Grayson calmed down enough to listen to the other men in the shop.
    “I could never handle a woman like that, not even in a nightmare,” an old man with a smoke-colored goatee was saying between puffs on his pipe. Each time he exhaled, his face became a blur for a moment.
    “Now, Jack, don’t go being so hard on her. You saw that broach she had on. It’s called a widow’s broach from Bull Run. My sister lost her first husband in that battle and she had one just like it. She gave it up to be melted down about the time she remarried, but it were the same kind. That woman lost her man in the first battle of the war and she’s still mourning him. There’s something to be said for that kind of strong woman. I’d give a lot to know a woman mourned me that long.”
    The barber stopped working and added to the conversation. “You’re right. It was a hard war and the menfolk weren’t the only ones who suffered.”
    Grayson tried to relax. In his thirty years of life he could never remember being so angry at a woman, or so attracted to one. When this job was over, he planned to pull her off her high-and-mighty pedestal and teach her she couldn’t run over people. While he was at it, he might teach her a little about what it meant to be a woman. Not a widow, but a warm, flesh-and-blood woman.
    The men in the shop changed the subject to the latest Indian raid, while Grayson silently planned his revenge on Mrs. Margaret Alexander.

Chapter 7
     
    The still warmth of late afternoon hung in the air like a thousand invisible spiders. Cherish could feel the heavy dampness brush her hot flesh, but she had no time to stop working. This spare room had to be cleaned before bedtime. Brant’s fever had broken after three days and now he would be safe without a constant watch. Her plan was simple: she’d move him down the hall while the others were eating dinner. Somehow she had to get him farther