Free Speak Through the Wind by Allison Pittman Page A

whether she should feel flattered or frightened that Ben took such pains to know what was happening in her life, so she forced herself to ignore the cautionary knot forming in the pit of her stomach. She picked up her abandoned history text from the sofa and clutched it to her as she perched nervously on the edge of the sofa.
    “So tell me, darlin’. How are you holdin’ up?”
    “Just fine.”
    “You don’t look fine, Kassie. You don’t look fine at all. You look a little … scared.”
    “Not at all.” She clutched her book more tightly to her.
    “I saw how angry that woman—Clara, wasn’t it?—looked when I left here the other day. You two must have had quite the argument.”
    “Not really,” Kassandra said, Clara’s accusations ringing in her head.
    “That kind of anger? And the woman not feelin’ well to begin with?” Ben punctuated his thoughts with a shrug that made the conclusion obvious.
    In that one simple gesture he expressed every thought that had been haunting her since Reverend Joseph came to her room. For just a moment she felt relieved, grateful for a chance to unburden her soul to somebody who understood, but she stopped herself short of a full confession, knowing that voicing the suspicion would make it undeniably true. She hadn’t been able to even look at herself in a mirror since awakening to Clara’s death, being unable to face her accuser, and every silent second spent in that parlor took Ben from confidant to conspirator, and she was suddenly unable to face him, either.
    “Please, Ben,” she said, her eyes closed against him, “do not say that.”
    “Now, don’t fret about it.”
    She couldn’t see him, but his voice was coming closer, until it was just outside her ear, and his hand was resting on her shoulder.
    “It can’t be entirely your fault, can it? For a heart to just stop like that—no matter how agitated a person might get—there was probably somethin’ wrong to begin with.”
    “No, no.” She trembled under his touch, and the tears that needed to be shed for days finally began a slow, painful course down her face.
    “I’m just tryin’ to make you feel better. Don’t cry, Kassie. Hush now.”
    Kassandra’s arms went slack around her book as Ben’s arm snaked across her shoulders. The tome was lifted out of her grip and dropped to the ground, and his other arm brought her into a full embrace. She felt the coarse material of his shirt against her skin, her tears soaking his shoulder. When he spoke again, softly just above her ear, she felt the vibrations of his throat against her face.
    “You didn’t tell him, did you,” he said. “About what we—why Clara was so angry.”
    She shook her head against him.
    “Of course you didn’t. And why should ya, knowin’ how he’d feel?” He scooted back from her, held her at arm’s length, and she opened her eyes. “Do you remember what it felt like? To kiss me?”
    “Stop it,” she said, worming out of his arms and standing to tower above him. When he, too, stood, she turned and started to walk away.
    “Ah, Kassie,” Ben said, grabbing her arm. “I loved you the first time I saw you. Don’t you love me, too? Just a little bit?”
    “How could I know that?” she said, not turning around until the slightest twist of her arm forced her to.
    “Kassie, come away with me. Right now.”
    There was no glint of humor in his voice or in his eyes. No impish grin of a little boy planning an adventurous lark. Until this moment, that was exactly how she had thought of him—childlike and fun, always quick with some silly joke to make her laugh. But now she saw him as a man, a man with an entire life lived beyond this house and their playful encounters in the kitchen. A life he was offering to her.
    “Go upstairs,” his voice intensified. “Get your things.”
    “I could never leave Reverend Joseph. He needs me to—”
    “To what? Waste your life shufflin’ around here? Breakin’ your back servin’ him