”I’m not an ogre,” Kit muttered. “’You can put down the chair.”
Very slowly, Margo let go her death grip. The front legs settled with a quiet thump. She swallowed a couple of times. “I didn’t mean-I mean, I didn’t plan to-”
”It’s said,” Kit interrupted brusquely. “And yes, you do come by it honestly.”
For some reason, that brought a fresh flood of tears. Kit felt as though he’d just hit her and couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to repair the damage. The sense of helplessness which paralyzed him reminded Kit unpleasantly of the times Sarah had dissolved into tears.
”I-Skeeter, he-and you-” Margo’s voice control was gone.
Kit finally thought to hunt for a handkerchief and found a rumpled one in a back pocket. “Here.”
She all but snatched it out of his hand, then turned her back and struggled visibly to regain the shreds of her dignity. Kit waited quietly, aware that a woman’s pride was a far more serious matter than a man’s and men had been known to do murder when theirs was injured. She hiccoughed a few times and blotted her face, then blew her nose.
”Sorry,” she muttered. “I ruined Skeeter’s hanky, too.”
Kit winced. He decided he did not want to know how Skeeter Jackson had comforted his granddaughter. If he’d hurt her …I’ll toss him through the next unstable gate that opens. She finally faced him, a watery-eyed waif in a bedraggled strumpet’s gown. No wonder she paid somebody to change the name on her ID card to “Smith.” Didn’t want anyone to know who she really was, desperate to do this on her own merits …