Twenty-FiveAt a long table in the kitchen, Bridget sat across from Doc and Tate. She’d been at Plum Cake’s for eight days, and she still couldn’t be in the room without thinking of the farmhouse kitchen. She and Papa Henry had shared not just meals over their small table, but hours of conversation and love while Wire slept at their feet. Now that room with its wood-burning stove would be ice cold. And Wire? He’d be with Cora if she could coax him away. More likely, he’d be in the barn with the animals he knew, lying sentinel beside Papa Henry’s body.
Doc and Tate joined Bridget at the table. “An old bachelor,” Doc said, “doesn’t pass up a good meal.” He pulled a flask from his coat pocket and set it beside his bowl.
Tate had been crying, and a faint scent of alcohol on her breath wafted
