In the Face of Danger by Joan Lowery Nixon Page A

animals cared for and stabled, and Megan and the Browders snug inside the house, when Mr. Haskill arrived on foot.
    His tap on the door made Emma start, and she nearly dropped the lamp she was lighting.
    Ben glanced at the rifles in their rack near the door and called, “Who’s there?”
    “It’s me—Farley Haskill,” the visitor answered.
    “Not Ada again!” Emma breathed, but she put a fixed smile on her face and prepared to greet her neighbors.
    Mr. Haskill entered alone, his head and neck tucked down inside the big collar of his coat as though he were trying to find a place to hide, and put the lantern he was carrying on the table.
    Ben peered outside through the open door. “Where’s Ada?”
    “Home,” Mr. Haskill mumbled. “She’s sent me with a list of things she needs and wants me to borrow.” He looked apologetically at Emma. “I tried to tell her that she can’t take from the neighbors, that we’ll have to ride to town for some of these things—those we can afford—but she—well, she insisted.”
    Megan could imagine how insistent Mrs. Haskill could be.
    “Never mind, Farley,” Emma said. She took the list from his hand. “Take off your coat and rest. Ben can pour some coffee for you—that is, ground hickory.”
    Mr. Haskill shrugged. “That’s all I’m used to.”
    He looked so miserable that Megan felt sorry for him. She helped him take off his coat and hung it on the rack for him.
    Emma read the list, nodding or shaking her head at each item. “I can give you some sugar. It’s brown sugar, though, not the white Ada is used to.”
    “Brown’s fine.”
    “And some sassafras. It’s not on the list, but if she brews it in tea and drinks it good and hot it will help take away her headache. I don’t have the headache powders she wants.”
    Mr. Haskill nodded.
    For just a minute Emma closed her eyes and pursedher lips as if she were trying to make a difficult decision. She gave a little sigh and said, “I do have one down pillow that I can lend her. My mother made it for me.”
    Mr. Haskill looked even more miserable than before. “It’s not right to take it.”
    “What are neighbors for?” Emma said. “Of course you’ll take it to Ada, if it will make her happy.” She shook her head. “But I don’t own a down quilt. I can give you a pieced quilt, though, that should be good and warm.”
    “I can’t see that any of these things will make her happy,” Mr. Haskill blurted out. “She thought we’d have a real house. I should have told her most folks out here start with a dugout. But Ada didn’t know that. It’s my fault. I guess it never occurred to me that it would matter so much to her. She’s—well, she’s been crying ever since I took her home.”
    Megan felt another brief pang of guilt for anticipating Mrs. Haskill’s discomfort and laughing about it.
    Emma patted Mr. Haskill’s arm. “We’ll help Ada to feel at home,” she said. “Everything’s strange to her now, but she’ll come around.”
    “She wants a real house,” Farley said. “She wants one built of lumber, and I can’t afford to buy the logs yet.”
    “Tell you what, Farley,” Ben said. “Why don’t I help you cut sod bricks and build you a house up away from the river?”
    Mr. Haskill brightened. “Do you think Ada would settle for a sod house?”
    “It’s better than a dugout,” Ben said. “It would have more than one window. We could make two rooms in it, and Ada would feel like she had a real house.”
    “That’s a kind offer. I can’t thank you enough,” Mr. Haskill said, and his eyes glistened in the lamplight.
    “I’ll put together as many of the things on this list as I’ve got on hand,” Emma said, “and you stop worrying about Ada.”
    As Emma set to work, Megan sat on the footstool and studied Mr. Haskill. He took a long sip of his coffee, cradling the cup in his hands, and said, “I guess she’s lonely for home.”
    “It’s only natural for now,” Ben said.