“I could think of worse things than to marry me. Am I that bad that you’d rather go to…to prison?” He bit down on the word.
Surprised by his harshness, I stepped back. Peering down at the bouquet he held, I begged for the right words to come.
“Is it because I’m the moonshiner’s son, Honey? I can get work in the mines.” He dropped his voice to barely a whisper, glanced back at his papa. “I’ll work that dirty rock, be a dirt-digger and dig myself two graves, whatever it takes to keep ya free.”
“No, Carson,” I hissed low. “Our families have been friends forever. You’re good folk.”
“I could be a good husband.” He looked over his shoulder to Devil John.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“But you’re already sixteen,” he whispered, reminding what some in these parts might suggest to a girl in danger of becoming an old maid.
“I don’t need to catch a man before my next birthday, Carson. And I’m not marrying someone whose happiness belongs to another. I’ve seen you with Greta Clemmons.”
He frowned, knowing it was true.
I looked Devil John straight in the eye and said with all my might, “I’ll be an adult in sixteen months. And I have a respectable job that pays good money.” I whipped out the job post flyer from my coat and held it up, then tapped on the pinned name tag. “I have a home and means to support myself.” I swept my arm toward the cabin. “And without taking charity, Devil John. If the laws says I’m old enough to marry at sixteen, why can’t it declare me an adult when I have a home, a job, and can fend for myself?” I shifted my stare to Mr. Morgan. “Why, sir?”
Mr. Morgan’s eyes met mine while he also pondered an answer.
The men were quiet as my eyes searched their faces, the question loud but hanging quiet between them. Carson wrung the floppy brim of his hat and snuck glances at me, his face miserable and reddened—I guessed from failing at the task his papa had set before him.
Finally, Mr. Morgan said, “Honey, can we go inside and talk in private?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Honey, wait.” Carson reached for my hand. “I don’t want to see ya sent away to that damn prison. I’d be honored to have you as my bride,” he said, a pained smile lifted on his lips.
Carson was as fine a man as any, one who still had his sweet ways and boyish smile—the look a youth holds before manhood and the ol’ Kentucky land and the hardness latch on and wither it.
“I’m really sorry, Carson,” I said, picking up my satchel.
“Devil, I won’t be long.” Mr. Morgan opened the door and motioned me inside.
I glanced at the ol’ moonshiner and, seeing his disappointment and worry pinched across his face, hoped he wouldn’t think me too ungrateful.
Slipping inside, I dropped my bag by the door. Mr. Morgan followed, and the old wooden floor groaned under the lawyer’s weight as he peeled off his coat and handed it to me. I hung it on the peg, offering him something to drink.
“Coffee if you have it, Honey.” He eased into the chair, perched his elbows on the table, watching.
I lit the woodstove and put on the kettle, then pulled out Mama’s ol’ copper and glass bubbled percolator from France, filled the burner with kerosene, and lit it after adding the water and coffee. When it was done, I poured his coffee and my tea in Retta’s cups and placed them on the table.
He took a sip and said, “You’ve got a comfortable place here.”
I looked around, proud that I had cleaned it and made my bed before leaving this morning.
“Tell me more about your job,” he said.