One afternoon, a traveling peddler passed through with a crate of battered primers and a few thin books of poetry. Bellar traded a hand-embroidered cloth and two jars of Boone’s pickles for them, and Boone watched the exchange with faint amusement.
“You planning to start a library?” he asked.
“I’m planning,” Bellar said, “to make sure your boys can read every word anyone tries to use against them.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded like he understood more than she’d said.
Soon, neighboring children started drifting to the cabin on Sundays, curious about the “new Mrs. Carter.” Some came for lessons. Some came just to stare. Bellar taught anyway, chalking letters on a slate, turning the cabin table into a school desk. The first time Emmett read a whole sentence without stumbling, his eyes widened like he’d discovered a hidden door in the world.
Bellar’s chest ached with something too big for a name.
“You did that,” Boone told her later, when the boys were asleep.
“I just held the book,” she replied.
Boone shook his head. “You held
