She saw Cole.
The room changed.
Not because she looked afraid.
Everyone else usually did.
The companion straightened immediately.
The housekeeper lowered the teapot.
A ranch hand near the dining-room door suddenly found something extremely interesting about his boots.
Abigail simply looked at Cole.
Then smiled.
“You must be Mr. Hayes.”
Cole walked toward her.
“You came from the relief office?”
“Yes.”
Her voice matched the laugh.
Warm.
Clear.
She gestured toward a leather document case on the table.
“Annual distribution records.”
Cole looked at the case.
“You traveled here personally?”
“My employer asked.”
“Why?”
Abigail smiled.
“Apparently you ignore letters.”
The ranch hand near the door coughed to hide laughter.
Cole looked at him.
The man immediately disappeared.
Abigail continued:
“You donated enough money to keep fourteen households supplied through winter, then refused to sign two pages confirming where it went.”
Cole looked at her.
“So they sent you.”
“They sent someone they believed wouldn’t leave without the signature.”
His eyebrow rose.
“They chose correctly?”
“I missed my stagecoach.”
Cole almost smiled.
“Convenient.”
Abigail looked toward the rain.
“Not particularly.”
Her companion stepped forward.
“Mr. Hayes, I apologize for the intrusion. We’ll stay only until the road improves.”
Cole nodded.
“Rooms are being prepared.”
“Thank you.”
Abigail watched him.
Cole noticed.
“What?”
She blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re staring.”
The companion’s face went pale.
Abigail considered denying it.
Then apparently decided not to.
“Yes.”
Cole waited.
“You look different from your portrait.”
“What portrait?”
“The one in the fund office.”
He frowned.
“I never sat for a portrait.”
“It was copied from a newspaper illustration.”
“That explains why it’s bad.”
Abigail smiled.
“It makes you look cruel.”
“And I don’t?”
She studied him.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be flattering.
Cole folded his arms.
“What do I look like?”
Her companion whispered:
“Abigail.”
Abigail ignored her.
“Sad.”
The main room became completely silent.
Cole’s face changed.
The housekeeper stopped pouring tea.
A ranch hand at the far table lowered his cup.
Abigail’s companion closed her eyes as though praying for patience.
Cole looked at Abigail.
“What did you say?”
She swallowed.
Some of her confidence disappeared.
But she did not take the words back.
“You look sad.”
Cole stepped closer.
He was six foot four and heavily built.
Abigail was seated on a reinforced chair, though even standing she would have been much shorter.
She looked up.
Cole said:
“People usually choose another word.”
“Angry?”
“Yes.”
“Cold?”
“Often.”
“Unpleasant?”
His mouth moved faintly.
“Sometimes.”
Abigail smiled.
“I think people mistake sadness for anger when the sad person doesn’t want anyone close enough to recognize it.”
No one breathed.
Cole stared.
She twisted her fingers together.
For the first time, she looked nervous.
Good.
That made more sense.
Cole asked:
“You always speak this freely to strangers?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
Abigail thought.
“Because everyone here seems frightened to.”
The ranch hand near the wall looked offended.
“We’re not frightened.”
Cole looked at him.
He immediately returned to his coffee.
Abigail’s eyes softened.
Cole disliked it.
Not because it was pity.
Pity he could reject.
This was recognition.