To stop.
I look at her.
Her face is pale, but her eyes are not empty.
They burn.
She turns back to Ruthanne.
“My husband prayed with one hand and bruised me with the other,” Amelia says, voice shaking but clear. “Tell him God saw both.”
The Fire Pit goes dead silent.
Even Cornbread shuts up.
Ruthanne’s face changes.
Only for a second.
Enough to show the ugly under the lace.
“He sends a message. You’ll regret humiliating him,” she says softly.
I move.
Amelia says, “Derby.”
One word.
I stop.
Barely.
Royal appears at Ruthanne’s side like her shadow decided to file a complaint. He smiles down at her. “Mrs. Peck, I believe your casserole is burning.”
She stiffens. “Excuse me?”
“That was me being polite. The impolite version is less suitable for ladies who weaponize Jesus before dinner.”
Cornbread calls from the bar, “You want me to box her up a regret sandwich?”
Royal’s smile widens. “Tempting.”
Ruthanne looks around and realizes the room ain’t with her. Not fully. Maybe some agree. Maybe some will whisper later. But right now, in the Fire Pit, with Kings at the walls and Amelia standing beside me, she misjudged the ground.
Neutral doesn’t mean empty.
It means everyone sees who breaks the rules.
Ruthanne lifts her chin. “This town has a long memory.”
Amelia’s voice comes stronger this time. “So do women.”
Damn.
There she is.
Not all the way.