"I don't."
"Trust me." She nodded.
"I do."
She stamped her foot in the soft muck. "Then kiss me."
A grim possibility occurred to him, and he hesitated an instant too long. She wrenched herself free with a snarl and bolted back toward the shanty. "I could have done that last night," she snapped over her shoulder, "while you were asleep."
The chase led back to the house. When he burst back inside, she was already panting over the sink, scraping plates. When he approached her from behind, she whirled quickly, clenching a platter in both hands. When she brought it down across his head with a clatter of broken china, Morgan gave up. He retreated, nursing his scalp, then stalked angrily out to join Hanson. Dogs were baying to the north. The old man looked worried.
"They're comin', suh. Must be a lot of 'em. I got my dawgs trained so they don't bark less they's a bunch of 'em."
Morgan listened for a moment. "I hear a truck."
"That's so?" Hanson shook his head. "They ain't never come in a truck before."