"I don't carry guns. Personal preference." Mathew shrugged.
"I'll get that water," Verity said, taking the shotgun with her. She set it on the counter and brought a cool glass back with her. She offered it to the intriguing city man.
"Thank you." He swallowed it down in a few gulps and made a strange face before passing the empty glass back to her.
Satisfied with Mathew's threat level, her brother said, "I've got work to do. Be respectful in my house. And you"—he pointed at her—"put your gun away." He spun on his heel, and the screen door slapped behind him.
Mathew sighed and chuckled. "He's intense."
"Yeah. Johnny's a stubborn jackass too. Sit. Are you hungry? I've got a lot of food and no one ate it."
"I don't want to impose or anything..."
She clenched her jaw, feeling a flash of anger and insult at his refusal. Mathew continued, "But I'd love some."
Verity smiled with his acceptance and served him a fresh plate at the table. She resumed eating her cold food. At least it was still edible.
"What did you want with Verity?" she asked between swallows.
"I guess she's in trouble—"
"What do you know about it?" she cut in.
"Uh, nothing actually. I don't know where she is, what she looks like, what the trouble is, or anything at all. But I'm here to help. I suppose I won't be very useful."
"I'll help you find her. Perhaps we can figure it out together," she suggested, hoping to stay by his side.
"Oh, no. I won't trouble you with my issues. You must be busy."
"I don't mind." She leaned in close to him. "Truth is, I'd love to get away from here."
"The farm?" Mathew forked a potato.
"Astor, Bridgeport, Navarino, Greenleaf, all of it." Mathew tilted his head. She liked when he did that. It was funny. "What?"
"Are those places? Greenleaf sounds familiar."
"You're sitting in Astor, Wisconsin. Are you lost?" Verity tore into a bite of chicken, completely engrossed with his predicament. "Where are you from?"
"Green Bay, Wisconsin."
So, not California, but Green Bay was the name of the water. He dressed odd for a merchant sailor. "Hmm…Are you a pirate?" she teased. His quizzical look returned, and she laughed. "Guess not. Is Green Bay a city?"
"Yeah. It's a city." Mathew used a piece of bread to wipe up his plate. "This is great bread, by the way. Most excellent."
"Thanks. I just baked it."
"From scratch?"
"What do you mean?" He was definitely strange.
Mathew noticed Jonathan's newspaper left on the table. He spun it toward him, while she scooped up her last bite. His eyes rounded while he read the front page.
"What is it? What happened?" It had been a while since anything interesting happened around these parts—not since the whole shakedown of Gabriel Grignon's extortion last year. His hanging made front page news, and people talked about it for weeks. Too bad all that effort was for nothing, since Jaime Perez had resumed his operations. And from personal experience, Jaime was worse than Grignon could've ever pretended to be.
Mathew's head craned around the room, taking everything in as if seeing it for the first time. Perhaps he was too frightened by the shotgun to his face to notice anything before.
"What year is it?" His face blanched like he would faint. He dug his fingernails into the wood tabletop as if bracing for balance and stared at them in some sort of disbelief.
"Last I checked, 1853. Why?"
"Wow…How the hell did she...? This is wild." He reached into his pocket and removed a small metal trinket.
"What is that?"
He chuckled in a higher pitched voice. Could men suffer from hysteria?
"I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. What the hell is going on?" He slipped the trinket back into his pocket and stood too fast. He wobbled, and Verity sensed he was going down. She dashed around the table to him and barrel hugged his chest before he cracked his skull on the floor. She guided him to the couch and tipped him just enough that he crashed on the cushions. He was out cold.
Pig mud coated his shiny shoes—shoes of such a high quality she had never seen before. He must be rich. His trousers felt like soft clouds between her fingers. His shirt was half unbuttoned, and it had the same silky quality. She noticed dark hair peeking out from a lean chest. A flash of heat rolled through her body. Verity studied his face. His angular bearded jaw and strong brow made him very handsome. She wanted to touch, to learn who he was. A wallet! He would have a wallet. She dug in his front pockets. The one had the trinket, and the other was empty. She tried to reach his back pockets, but she couldn't move him. She snapped her fingers in frustration and retrieved a moist washcloth. Verity was fascinated by him, but she was mostly interested in why he wanted to help her.
***
MATHEW BLINKED his eyes open to an unfamiliar plaster ceiling in a buttery yellow color. It smelled like pig manure and boiled chicken, and his face was drenched in cold sweat. A face popped into view, and he held his breath in shock. The dream was so real he could hardly breathe.
"What happened?" he asked.
The intriguing woman, who casually stared down the barrel of a shotgun like some kind of outlaw said, "You read the newspaper and fainted."
Talk about embarrassing. Mathew had never touched a gun before, nor saw one in person. The Amish were amazing people with a commanding presence. This woman and her husband instantly earned his respect. They also appeared to have some serious marital problems.
Mathew cleared his throat and sat up. A cool towel fell off his forehead, and he handed to her. "Thanks." Mathew watched her lips spread into a sweet smile and a similarity struck him. "I hope this isn't weird, but you look like my sister a little." He hadn't noticed the resemblance until she'd smiled or was his mind simply manifesting a likeness to his sister because he missed her dearly?
Her brows lifted in surprise. "I didn't realize I had a twin."
He chuckled. "Well, she doesn't know how to shoot a gun, so you got her there. She also hates dresses. Blue eyes, not green, and she doesn't have freckles. Her hair is less wild. Well, that doesn't make you sound similar. Maybe it's the bone structure." He was babbling. Her nose scrunched up and all the resemblance was gone. He shouldn't have said anything, because now he sounded like a weirdo.
"What's wrong with my hair?"
"Nothing." He smiled. "There's nothing wrong with it at all."
She was distracting. When he looked at her, he saw an assertive woman who handled herself with confidence and a baffling amount of bravery. He fought the urge to bury his hands in her hair, to tangle the waves in his fingers. But he'd already met her husband, Jonathan, and frankly, he'd appreciate never crossing paths with him again. Mathew needed to find Verity and...something. How was he going to prevent her from being captured?
"Can you take me to Verity? I assume you know who she is."
A loud pounding on the front door startled them both. The intriguing beauty next to him sprung to her feet and uncharacteristically stuttered. "I…I, uh. I have to go." She dashed into a room off the living room and disappeared into the darkness.