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“At least,” Leah said in a tear-clogged voice, “they are not throwing melon rinds and rotten eggs at me as they did in my village in China. But tonight I think I would prefer melon rinds and rotten—”
“Yeah,” Thad agreed. “At least it’s more honest.”
Neither of them spoke on the drive back to the ranch. Even Teddy seemed subdued. Leah relived the deliberate rudeness of the townspeople over and over in her mind. Part of her could not believe people could be so blatant about their dislike of her. Another part saw the insults for what they were—fear of anyone who looked different. Even so, that knowledge did not ease the lancelike wound in her heart.
When they reached the ranch, Thad strode off to the barn without a word of explanation. Leah clamped her jaw tight.
Could he not see her distress? He was acting more like a Chinese husband—remote and preoccupied—than an American one. Perhaps it was true that all men were the same: when confronted with a threat, they stormed off to fight whatever it was.
Leah sighed over the sharp rock lodged in her throat. Her mother always said reasoning with people was more effective than using fists, but she was learning that reasoning was much harder.
She choked back tears, tumbled into bed and curled up into a ball. After what felt like hours waiting for Thad, she fell asleep.
Thursday was Leah’s weekly baking day. Thad tramped out to the barn to doctor a lame foot on his horse, and a glowering Teddy had gone off to school, so she was alone. She had just set four loaves of bread to rise when a gentle tap sounded on the front door.
Oh, no, not Teddy with another bloody nose. Cautiously she swung the door open to find an attractive, sun-browned woman in a blue wool skirt and knitted shawl. Leah recognized her at once—she was the woman who had stood up with her at the wedding.
“Bonjour, madame. I have come for a tête-à-tête.”
“A what? I do not understand.”
The woman smiled. “A ‘lady visit.’ That is what we say in France.”
Leah resisted the sudden impulse to hug the woman and eagerly motioned her inside. Her guest stepped into the living room and glanced around approvingly.
“You remember me, I hope? I am Jeanne Halliday. Jeanne Nicolet before I marry my husband, Colonel Halliday. Your son’s friend, Manette Nicolet, is my daughter.”
“Oh, of course. Please sit down. Would you like some tea?”
“Oui, merci. Now I will tell you why I come. My husband and I attended Monsieur Jensen’s dance in the barn last Saturday night. We saw what happened, and I came to speak with you.”
Leah could only stare at her.
“I think you are very strong not to scream at Monsieur Ruben and those rude ladies who walked away from your dancing square. Square dance,” she amended.
At the sink, Leah pumped water into the teakettle. “I did want to scream. But there are already enough people in Smoke River who dislike me. I did not want to add more.”
“Alors, I understand. It is because you—and I—we are considered ‘different.’ When I first came to Smoke River, no one at all would speak to me.”
Leah set the kettle on the stove while Jeanne settled herself at the kitchen table. “I am glad you came, Mrs. Halliday.”
“Bon! To friends, I am Jeanne. We shall be good friends, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oh, yes, I hope so! I…I—” She gulped, afraid she would cry and disgrace herself. She blinked away the tears that stung her eyelids. “I feel so alone in Smoke River. I want so much to fit in, but the only woman who is friendly is Ellie Johnson, the schoolteacher.”
“Of course. Madame Johnson is from the city of Boston. She knows something of the world beyond Smoke River. As I do.”
Leah set a cup of tea before her guest and Jeanne stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar. “Now we talk about the men, eh? Your husband and my husband, they are much alike. Independent, am I correct?”
“And stubborn,” Leah added with a smile.
Jeanne laughed. “And, how do you say, one-minded.”
“Single-minded. Exactly.”
“Let us be frank. Men in Oregon are not like men in other places. And our husbands—”
A laugh burbled out of Leah’s mouth. “Our husbands are definitely Oregon men.”
“Vraiment!”
“We are trapped.”
“Ah, non.” Jeanne gave her an assessing look. “Say instead that we are happy.”
“Happy? Oh, Mrs.—Jeanne, I wish that were true. I am finding life here in the West very…well, difficult.”
“Ah, je comprends. But our men—my husband, Wash, and your husband—they love us. Many women are not so fortunate. Do you know Mrs. Sorensen?”
