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That did it. It was one thing to ride a man for his choice of crop to plant; it was another to insult a man’s choice of a wife. Thad’s hands tightened into fists.
“Why in hell are you so sure it isn’t going to work out?”
The mercantile owner dropped his gaze and studied the smooth wood counter. “Well, just look at her. She don’t fit in with Smoke River folks. Never will. The ladies are already declaring war on her.”
“War?” Thad exploded. “Not on my wife, they’re not. What’s got into this town, anyway?”
Carl snorted. “One Celestial woman, that’s what.”
“Shut your mouth, Carl. Give me a bushel of apples and some coffee beans. And don’t say another word.”
The proprietor sneered. “Coffee, huh? I thought all them Celestials drank tea.”
“Or whiskey,” someone said from the back of the store.
“Whooee, I’d sure like to see that little Chinese gal three sheets to the wind, wouldn’t you, boys?” This last gibe came from Whitey Poletti, the barber, who now lounged at Thad’s elbow.
Without a word Thad spun toward the man and laid him out flat with a single punch. The next thing he knew someone had pinned his arms from behind and a voice was speaking in his ear.
“Don’t do this, Thad. It’ll only hurt your wife when she has to bail you out of jail.”
Thad shook himself to clear the red haze from his vision. Marshal Matt Johnson released him, slapped him on the back and thrust the bushel basket of apples against his chest. Then he swung the ten-pound bag of coffee beans onto his own shoulder and steered Thad out the mercantile door.
At the hitching rail in front of the store, Matt lifted the apples out of Thad’s grasp, waited until he’d mounted his horse and dropped the sack of coffee beans across his lap.
Thad eyed the marshal. “Thanks, Matt.”
He grinned up at him as he grasped the horse’s bridle. “Sure thing. And Thad, if it comes up again, remember Poletti has a mean left hook.” He slapped the horse’s rump. “Give my regards to Leah.”
That evening at supper Thad appeared deaf to Leah’s quiet inquiries about his trip to town, and he was again ignoring Teddy’s chatter about his school day.
“And then Manette—she’s only six, and she’s French like her momma, an’ she knows lots of foreign words—anyway Manette pushes old Harvey offa me an’ calls him a name and kicks him in his privates. An’ then…Pa? Pa! Are you listening?”
Leah’s quick glance at Thad’s face confirmed Teddy’s fear; his father was not listening. Instead he was staring down at his boots, apparently focused on something inside himself.
A dart of anger bit into her chest. This could not continue. Not only was Teddy hurting, but she herself was wrestling with fury at Thad’s indifference. Tonight, when they were alone in the bedroom, she would speak to him.
She studied her husband’s drawn face. Something had happened in town today; a purple-blue blotch spread across the knuckles of his right hand, but he had refused to say a word about it.
Or about anything else—not the savory stew she’d labored over using bacon and potatoes; not the new ruffled apron she wore, which she had whipped up on the sewing machine that afternoon. Not even the pile of clean work shirts she had ironed today.
“Thad?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you not like stew?”
“What? No, no, it’s fine. Just not hungry, I guess.”
She didn’t believe him for one second. Ever since he’d returned from town he’d worked hard shoring up the makeshift dam he’d constructed to keep his wheat field from flooding. Even if his mind was somewhere else, surely his belly must be clamoring for food?
“Shall I read more of Ivanhoe after supper? Teddy wants to know what happens to Isaac the Jew.”
“Yeah, Pa,” Teddy exclaimed. “I wanna see if they torture old Isaac.”
“Thad?”
“What? Oh, sure. Sure.”
Leah bit back a groan. Enough was enough. She could hardly wait until they were alone.
She lifted the book down from the shelf, seated herself in the chair by the fireplace, opened the volume and began to read.
“‘Strip the Jew, slaves,’ said Front-de-Boeuf. ‘And chain him down upon the bars.’”
Teddy sucked in a breath. “How come they’re so mean to Isaac? is it because he’s a Jew?”
“Not exactly,” Leah said. “It is because Isaac is—” she almost choked on the word “—different. In those days people persecuted what was different. Many hated the Jews. Those people were prejudiced.”
