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don’t kid. This is Mrs. Casper.”
    Laura forced a grin into place and extended her own hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bruisner. I’m Laura Casper. My husband is already out of the house, but how may I help you?”
    Mr. Bruisner never touched her. He stared once more, his dark brows knitted together. “But—but miscegenation is illegal in these parts, is it not?”
    “Seeing as how Mr. Casper owns these parts ,” Meredith hollered, “I doubt very much he’d make his holy marriage illegal.”
    Laura lowered her proffered hand and turned to Meredith. “Please—”
    Meredith felt her brows probably arch into her hairline, surprised Laura could be so...polite.
    “Holy marriage?” Mr. Bruisner said with noticeable sarcasm. “ Holy marriage, the woman says to me.”
    “Yes, I do.” Meredith couldn’t help herself, even though she knew Laura was pulling on her plaid, trying to get her to shut up. But she couldn’t let the ass get off with that tone, those remarks. He couldn’t talk that way to the most wonderful woman the world had ever seen. “Tom and Laura love each other. Their marriage is the happiest I’ve ever seen, and if you have a problem with that—”
    “Not only do I have a problem with that, but it’s against the law. The majority of our nation has a problem with that.”
    Meredith huffed. “Not my nation, buddy. Not mine.”
    Mr. Bruisner took a threatening step closer, suddenly inches from Meredith’s face. “I’m guessing with your accent it is , in fact, your nation. That you are not one of the millions of heathen immigrants stealing from my government. So I must ask, miss, are you an anarchist?” His voice had lowered, ominously.
    It flashed through Meredith’s mind. Couldn’t be helped. Years of being an historian might be to blame, but there it was, riveting through her brain, as if she were a freaking Wikipedia, the ascension of anarchy from Greek philosophy to current time, late 1880s. Anarchy began as a utopian idea, everyone having liberty, rights, and freedom through a no-government structure. That philosophy was thousands of years old. Anarchy resurfaced after the French Revolution, trying to find a peaceful way to regain control over a government that had killed too many. It had been a pacifistic movement for so long—advocating women’s rights, freedom of one’s body, free from judgment. Freedom.
    But with the world catching fire in 1848, ten countries embroiled in revolutions, anarchy, ironically, had started to become synonymous with terrorism. Bombings, assassinations, so much blood on the hands of anarchists. Or at least they were blamed.
    Meredith knew she couldn’t call herself an anarchist without the man thinking the worst of her.
    But, oh, how she wanted to say yes, just to goad him.
    “She’s not an anarchist.” A powerful voice rang through the dinning room.
    Meredith wanted to clench her eyes shut, but she turned to the second hero of the day: actually two heroes, Mr. Wan and his fourteen year-old son, Chen. It had been Mr. Wan’s remarkably loud voice calling out through the restaurant a beat ago. Now, they both stood—wide legged, arms crossed—just outside the kitchen. Mr. Wan and Chen were attired in white tunics, symbolic of Mr. Wan’s wife’s recent death. But there he was, defending Meredith.
    “Don’t talk to her like that.”
    Mr. Bruisner straightened and snorted. “I was just leaving.” He glared down at Meredith. “I know your type, you know? You probably think a woman such as yourself deserves suffrage. And the fact of the matter is, you probably are smarter than I, aren’t you, you little spitfire? You might even be more educated. Don’t think I missed your obvious New England, upper crest nasal drawl in your language.”
    “Don’t think I missed that you have no detectable American dialect,” Meredith retorted, not able to stop herself. “That’s right, I know all about you too, Mr. Bruisner. I’d guess with your