A Mighty Fortress

“Annabelle Mable Jean Wheeler,” a voice boomed behind me, taking full advantage of my Pa’s Catholic bent when it came to names. Odd, since that hadn’t been the religion he professed believing before dying or, more important, before me being born. “A lady your age shouldn’t be working on a fueling platform.” I groaned. Was it already time for that conversation again?

Turning, I crossed my arms, eyeing Mr. Jones. “And just what would you have me doing? Ain’t no family or person to take me in below.”

He looked me over like I was some riddle to be solved. Either that or a particularly funny bone the hounds had decided to fight over. “I’m sure I could convince Miss Hardy to take you into her circle.” His voice rumbled as slowly as a passenger train pulling into station. Wasn’t me he was thinking of helping when he thought of Miss Hardy. He was just thinking of an excuse to see her sister.

“Oh, I’m sure you could,” I said, all sweetness and smiles. “But whatever would I do there? Quilting and praying?” I tapped my lips with one finger. “Supposed I could add in storytelling. Like that one time the Dart passed through...”

Jones gawked at me, the languid smile slipping off his face to be replaced with a scowl. “You wouldn't.”

I gave him my most mischievous smile in reply. “Try me.”