Free Dunaway's Crossing by Nancy Brandon Page B

her mouth to answer, but Will reentered the house before she could speak.
    “You hardly have any firewood out there. Did you know that?”
    She hadn’t given firewood any thought. She always had plenty at home. Ralph saw to that.
    “And someone should dig you a fresh latrine. Smells like something fell in that one and died.”
    Netta curled her lip, and Bea Dot covered her mouth with her hand at the grotesque image.
    “Netta, I know Ralph wants you to be safe, but staying at this camp house can’t be the solution. Seems like he didn’t think this plan through.”
    Hallelujah! Will was going to take them back to town!
    Outside, crickets chirped, and the room had grown dark except for the oil lamp, which at least improved the look of Bea Dot’s dirty face. Will scratched his head and thought a moment before continuing. “Well, I can’t leave you two out here. I suppose you’ll have to come with me.”
    “Back to town?” Netta asked, the pitch of her voice rising with hope.
    “To Dunaway’s Crossing,” he replied.
    Netta’s heart sank a little. But at least Will’s new trading post was better than this camp house.
    “Where’s that?” Bea Dot asked. From the worry on her face, Netta could tell Bea Dot loathed the idea of more travel.
    “It’s my place,” Will explained. “Just on the other side of the lake. It won’t take long to get there.”
    Netta pressed her palms together, but said nothing. It wasn’t home, but Dunaway’s Crossing was a sight better than this sorry shack. His new place might be rustic, but at least he had a telephone and access to the main road. She and Bea Dot could tolerate staying there for the short term until Ralph sent for them again. “Well, I suppose you’re right,” she said cautiously. “Can we take my rocking chair?”
    “Certainly,” he said. “If you’ll pardon me a few minutes, I’ll put your belongings in my wagon, and we’ll be off.”
    Netta turned to Bea Dot with a triumphant smile. Bea Dot tried to return it, but she failed to conceal the fatigue in those dark eyes.

C hapter 9

    C ustomers trickled in for now, but Bea Dot felt sure that once word spread of Will Dunaway’s country store, a steady flow of clientele would run in and out his front door. He had stocked shelves with a variety of goods rural folk might need: cornmeal, molasses, salt, coffee, tobacco. She relished the store’s scent of raw pine and fresh paint, which was why she’d decided to knit at the kitchen table with a view through the doorway of the shop. She much preferred helping Will behind the counter or arranging items on the shelves to the tedious knit two, purl two of making Netta’s layette.
    “Your stitches are so even.” Bea Dot jumped as Netta’s voice over her shoulder startled her like a tiny shock of static electricity. Her cousin circled the straight-backed chair and faced her. “That’s going to be a precious receiving blanket.”
    She took the piece into her own pudgy hands to examine it more closely, and though Netta wore a smile of admiration, Bea Dot knew to expect a word of critique veiled in compliment.
    “Oh, dear, you’ve dropped a stitch.” Netta laced her voice in regret. “But at least it’s on this top row. You can still fix it.”
    Oh, hooray! There’s still hope for this blanket! Tacit sarcasm helped Bea Dot bite her tongue at her cousin’s frequent criticisms. Out loud, she said, “I’ll just add a stitch at the end of this row.”
    “Yes, you could do that,” Netta said before chewing on her lip, a telltale sign of disapproval. Bea Dot counted silently, wondering how long Netta would hesitate before suggesting a better solution. Poor Netta tried so hard to abandon her bossy perfectionism, but old habits died hard. “Then again, you could take out those few stitches and pull the dropped stitch over your right needle.”
    Pressing her lips, Bea Dot hid a smile. For a whopping seven seconds, Netta had held in her opinion. A new record for