We need to talk to you, Simpson.”A middle-aged man stepped from the front door of the farmhouse. He had that dusty dry look that all farmers had. Hi... skin looked like dry leather. His eyes had a permanent squint from years of staring into the sun while behind a plow. His clothes, while clean, were faded and patched to the point that their original color or even material was unknown.He carried an old but clean and well-oiled shotgun that was pointed over the newcomer’s heads. “What do you want?. But at the moment, it was all that she could think of; all she could do to relieve the anger and the embarrassment that flushed through her body.But even that was ineffectual!His own arm jumped up and grasped her wrist. Her anger growing, she slapped out with her other arm. Which again, he blocked, raising both her arms above her head and pinning them firmly against the rough trunk of the magnolia. She struggled, twisting to free herself, but he held her solidly."You bastard! It was you!" she. More

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