look nice enough. I need the rake.
A twig snaps off to the right, and I spin on my heel to seek out the source. I don’t have anything to protect myself. If a wild animal is coming, I’ll have to out-run it.
Behind a tree, there’s a flash of orange. It’s bright. I step toward it. Another snap, then the figure comes into full view.
It’s a man.
I freeze.
Seeing me, he stops short. He’s wearing a bright orange jacket with yellow stripes, holding a rifle in his left hand.
“Hey there,” he says, lifting his right hand. I stare at the rifle. Is he here to take our house? To kill us?
He follows my stare to his gun and quickly slings it over his shoulder.
“Hi.” He holds up both gloved hands. He must be so warm in all those clothes. A thick beard covers half his face. Papa tried to grow a beard once. When Mama teased him about patches, he shaved it off. She wasn’t allowed to sit at the dinner table for a week for her disrespect. He made her eat from a bowl on the ground at his feet. She learned to be nicer after that.
He takes more steps toward me, and I shuffle back, my heart kicking my ribs.
“Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He stops a few paces in front of me, out of the tree line and now on our property. I should run back to the house. I should scream for Papa. I can’t talk to this man.
He half laughs, like he’s forcing himself to calm down. “I didn’t think there’d be anyone out this way.” He glances at the graves, and his eyebrows rise. “You alone out here?” He stares behind me to the rest of our little homestead. The chickens are running around their coop, squawking, letting this man know what we have. He can’t see the pig pen from here, but he can see the house and the shed and the smoke house. He’ll want to take our meat.
“I really didn’t mean to scare you. I got off the damn path back there and got turned around.” He looks behind him. “Embarrassing as fuck with all my hunting experience.” He laughs again, but it’s more awkward. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have cursed.”
His gaze travels over me, taking me in. The dress I’m wearing today is a little small. I had to wash my other clothes, and they’re hanging on the line drying. The buttons over my breasts barely hold the fabric together, and the hem hits high on my thighs.
“No shoes?” he asks, confusion filling his words. “No jacket?” He looks back at the house, then the graves. “You live here?” He takes another step toward me, and I scramble back. Tripping over my own feet, I tumble to the ground.
“Shit. I’m sorry.” He rushes forward, his hand out like he’s going to grab me. I scramble back.
“No,” I croak out, stilling his advance. I look back at the house. Where are they with the rake? If they see him, they’ll hurt him. If they blame me for him being here, Papa will put me in the shed.
“Are you okay?” He tilts his head to the side. “What’s that?” he asks, nodding to where my dress has ridden up my thighs. The red welts still healing from Elijah’s lesson yesterday and bruises Papa left on my thighs when he gave me his forgiveness under his perusal.
He drops his shoulders and sighs. A big huff of his breath puffs away from him. He moves back several paces, and my heart calms to a run instead of a sprint. Carefully, I get to my feet.
“Who’s here with you?” he asks, using the same hard voice Papa uses when he expects an immediate answer, knowing no matter what I say it will displease him.
“My family,” I say quietly. If they hear me talking to him, they’ll think I’m looking to run away—and leaving is against the rules. I don’t want to be put down.
“They…the one’s who hurt you?” he demands, lowering his voice. He’s smart, taking the hint to stay quiet. But that bright orange coat will get us caught.
I wave him back. “You have to leave.”
His eyes narrow, probably picking up on the panic in my voice.
“Please, you have to go,” I urge, gesturing more wildly for him to back off. My stomach knots. He has to go.
“If they’re hurting you, I can help you,” he says, not budging.
I shake my head. It’s