How dare Ishmael speak to her as if she were a backward child? She could handle a gun, kill a rattlesnake, drive a wagon, chop wood, mend a leaking shed and do all a woman’s chores. She had dragged him out from under the boat, dressed his wound, nursed him through a fever and probably saved his worthless life. Yet the wretched man had ordered her inside as if she didn’t have a brain in her fluttery female head. Taking a deep breath, she counted slowly to ten. In his own maddening way, Ishmael was right, she conceded. This was a dangerous time, and her first responsibility was keeping Daniel safe. To protect her little brother she needed to be with him, in the house. So why hadn’t Ishmael put it that way, instead of behaving like a superior male jackass? Why did men always feel they had to put women in their place? Walking to the front window, she pressed close to the pane. She couldn’t see Ishmael from where she stood. He’d probably moved back into the shadows. Or maybe he was prowling the yard, looking and listening.
