Chapter 3Nobody spoke during breakfast. Eliza served each of the men without meeting their eyes—she knew her pink cheeks and bright eyes would betray her. Ford ate quickly, his guns looking deadly on his hips. John barely touched his food, his attention riveted to the revolver lying near his hand.
Eliza did her best to pretend everything was normal. After clearing the breakfast table, she started preparing the bread dough to be baked that afternoon. She asked John to bring in water for laundry. She ignored the way Ford paced through her house, checking each window in turn. She wanted to sing or shout to break the silence, but the only sound was of Ford’s footsteps and her hand slapping into the heavy dough.
“Miz,” John finally said as the dinner hour rolled by, “there’s a cloud of dust.
