Heat rushed into my cheeks.
The hole.
My secret. My shame. My last desperate gamble.
“I’m building a root cellar,” I said, and my voice came out smaller than I wanted. “A proper one. To store the harvest.”
Dale barked a laugh. “A root cellar. Girl, you’re digging a pit.”
Another man echoed him. “A great big foolish pit.”
Bingham’s mouth quirked, not smiling exactly, but enjoying the way the room leaned in behind him.
“What’re you gonna do,” Dale said, “bury your apples and pray they don’t rot? It’ll flood in the first rain. You’ll have yourself a mud hole full of cider.”
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