The Edge of Misery: The Mitchel Brothers Series Book Two

5

After waving goodnight to the Mitchells from the edge of the porch, Wren shoved past Dorsey, where he stood blocking the kitchen doorway, and started clearing the dishes from the table.

"What's got your petticoats in a bunch?" He grumbled, turning to face her, his fists propped on his hips.

She glared at him from the corner of her eye and shook her head, stomping to the sink to begin washing.

Dorsey watched her in silence, then stood beside her, his arms crossed over his chest. "Don't tell me you actually like that dirty Reb?"

"Never said I did," she muttered, scrubbing a dish clean and hoping her brother wouldn't notice her flushed cheeks. "And in any case, stop callin' him a 'dirty Reb;' the war's over."

"I bet it still rubs him raw that we won," he gloated as he picked up a towel.

She rolled her eyes and handed him the plate for drying. "Yes, you did it single-handedly in Fort Bulldale—thousands of miles away from all the fightin' and killin'."

He scowled at her, "At least I was on the right side."

"Everyone believes their side is right; that's part of why wars begin in the first place, ya knucklehead."

Dorsey sighed and glanced at her, "Bet if you'd fought, you could have walked up to ol' Jefferson Davis and beaned him between the eyes with your slingshot without him seein' it comin'. End the war 'fore it started."

Wren snorted a laugh, "I'll bean you here with my slingshot in a minute if you don't quit yammerin' and finish dryin' that stack of dishes 'fore Mama comes inside."

Several moments passed in silence as she washed and he dried before she glanced at him and said, "You didn't need to be such a jackass toward him—"

"He was one right back—"

"That's no excuse," Wren mumbled, although her lips twitched with laughter.

Dorsey put the dried dishes away, then spread the wet towel on the counter and frowned, "I must admit, I'm surprised."

Wren glanced at him as she wrung out her wet rag, "About what?"

He settled his right hand on his hip and tilted his head to the side, his shoulders lifting in a lopsided shrug as Nessie and Eldon entered and closed the kitchen door behind them. "The Mitchells aren't nothin' like I thought they'd be."

"No," Wren murmured in agreement, glancing out the kitchen window toward the lamplight flickering in the windows of the old cabin. "They're better."

Dorsey grunted. "Some of 'em, maybe."