Zia’s eyebrows went up in challenge. “That almost sounds like you’re ordering me around. I make my own decisions.”
“Not when danger is involved,” Milo said. “Then I have a say.”
Zia planted a hand on her hip. “You can have an opinion, but not a vote.”
“I definitely have a vote,” Milo countered. “And I have veto power too.”
“That’s not how marriage works,” Zia said, and the two stared at each other, neither budging.
Their father gestured to the trucks in an attempt to change the subject. “I’m sure the slavers’ things will fetch a good price, and we’ll have two trucks to sell next time we go to market.”
“You’ll have one truck,” Milo said, bringing his attention back to their parents. “The other belongs to me.” He lifted his bloody hand, offering it as proof. “I earned at least that much out of this deal.”
Their mother blinked in surprise. “Milo, you know we’re here to earn money for the settlement.”
Milo dipped his chin. “Yeah, well, no one at the settlement got their hand blasted today, so the truck is mine. I’ll be in my crappy excuse for a house waiting for the doctor.” He stormed off toward the row of bunkhouses.
He was right about the living arrangements. The farmers never put a lot of money into the workers’ houses. Usually, they were little more than sheds with electricity. Some didn’t even have running water, and the group always had to share a communal kitchen and bathrooms.
Zia said, “I’m going to make sure they’ve called a doctor.” She headed to the farmhouse without another word.
Charity’s mother watched Milo go, biting her lip. “I’ll talk to him.”
Her father put his hand out to stop her. “He’s got a right to be upset. He went through something that will stick with him for the rest of his life. They all did. Let him have some time. And the truck. If he decides to sell it and give the proceeds to building New Salem, it will be because his conscience told him to, not because we did.”
Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “I’m still going to sit with him until the doctor comes. He needs me there while he’s hurt.” It was more likely she couldn’t bear to be apart from him while he was injured. Zia wasn’t completely unfounded in her complaints against her in-laws. Charity’s mother had a hard time letting Milo be a husband instead of a son.
Charity’s father turned his attention to her with such sad eyes she could hardly bear the sight of them. “What about you? Do you think some of the supplies should be yours?”
Her mind flashed back to the market. As they’d left, she’d seen a man straddling one of the downed slavers with a pair of pliers—the one with the golden tooth. The captive had been yanking at the dead man’s mouth, shouting, “This is mine! I called it!”
She shook her head. She didn’t want something that would remind her of this day. The hollow feeling in her chest was reminder enough. “I didn’t do anything to deserve an extra portion.” Her gaze dropped to the ground, and her words tumbled out. “I was too afraid to throw the matches. I worried an explosion might kill us, or the guard would shoot us, and I didn’t know whether I should sacrifice a possibly innocent man in a bid for our freedom.
“So I stood there like an idiot, and Zia had to be the one who saved us. I messed up the prediction.” Charity’s voice caught in her throat. It felt as dry and tight as old corn husks. “I could’ve ruined everything and gotten us all killed. Why didn’t the prediction tell Zia to carry the matches?” The last words came out hitched with a sob.
Her father put his arm around her and gathered her into a hug. “You were cautious. There’s no shame in that.”
He was wrong. There was plenty of shame. Charity would carry the guilt with her for the rest of her life. In the critical moment, she’d been afraid to act.
Her father stepped away from her and glanced around again. He didn’t usually speak about his abilities, let alone do it out in the open where someone might walk up. He said if the family talked about his visions, they’d grow casual and slip up.
“What would’ve happened,” her father asked, “if Zia had carried matches? How would that have changed the outcome?”
Charity sniffed, trying to regain her composure. “The slaver searched Zia first. He would’ve taken the matches away from her. He only put them in my shirt pocket because he was still searching me.” The thought made her feel a little better. Charity had needed to be the one who carried them. “But I still should’ve thrown them. I just stood there, frozen.”
“We all make mistakes. The important thing is to grow from them.”
Some parents would have criticized her for her failure to act, especially since her brother and sister-in-law’s lives were on the line. Milo would be lecturing her about it before the day was out. Extensively. But her father didn’t.
Charity’s gaze went to the bunkhouse. “I hope Milo and Zia won’t be fighting for long.” She’d never seen them argue, and they’d parted so coldly.
“Marriage is like that sometimes. You’ll find out all about that one day. Probably sooner than I’d like.”
They began walking toward the farmhouse. “I hope my husband is patient,” she said. She hoped for many things from him. She’d built up a list of qualities that grew every year she waited for his arrival.
“He has a kind smile,” her father said.
Her father knew this because when she was fifteen, he’d seen her husband in a vision. A tall man with brown hair, tanned skin, and dark eyes. According to her father, he was pleasant looking. Getting more of a description from her father than that was difficult, although Charity had tried.