Mama—”
“Napkins on the left.”
“I know. ” With his tongue curling out of his mouth, Christian folded the cloth napkins and placed them to the right of the stoneware plates. “He has a big horse, Mama. It’s black.”
“Imagine that,” she replied, repositioning the napkins on the left.
“It’s in the barn with him. I’m gonna ride it.”
“I don’t believe you will.”
“We can hitch it to our broken wagon.”
“We’ll get our own horse soon and hitch it to the buckboard, after Reverend Halsey fixes it.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“You always say that. Soon. Is that when Reverend Halsey is gonna be my pa?”
The ladle poised over the pot. “Yes, I suppose it is. Quite soon.”
Christian thrust out his chin. “Then we’ll never get a horse, because Reverend Halsey doesn’t like them. He says they smell.”
“And he’s right. They do smell. That’s why they live in the barn with the other animals.”
“Mr. Stark doesn’t smell.”
Yes, he did...like baked leather and warm male skin. Her arms went suddenly weak. The ladle banged against the bottom of the pot. “No...I mean, he...” All words left her.
Christian frowned up at her through his bangs. “So why does he have to sleep in the barn?”
The ladle stirred and stirred. Jessica sought her words from the swirling soup and found nothing but a heightened thumping of her pulse.
“He could sleep on the floor in your room, Mama. He’s too big for the bed.”
“Stop it, Christian,” she snapped suddenly. Too suddenly, her voice brimming with an odd agitation. Regret flooded through her even before she could reach out a hand to caress that blond head. But Christian seemed to shrug off her mood in his typical fashion. In another instant, his finger inched toward the blackberries. This time, perhaps because of her regret, she didn’t stop him, and directed all her thoughts to ladling the steaming soup. She watched the characteristic scrunching of Christian’s nose as he glowered at the soup and then his gaze darted to the stove, seeking. Would this ritual never cease?
“Mama—”
“You’re eating the soup, Christian.”
“But, Mama—”
“Sit.”
“Can I eat with Mr. Stark in the barn?”
“Mama wants you to eat with her. Here. Now sit.”
He thrust out his lower lip and slid half on, half off the chair. One bare foot kicked belligerently at the table leg. He scowled into his bowl and pushed his spoon around with his thumb. “It’s too hot. I can’t eat it.”
“Blow on it.” Jessica eased into the chair next to his and felt the blood drain from her legs. She hadn’t been off her feet since sunup. Her dress hung heavy with dust and a day’s perspiration. Even muscles she’d had no idea she possessed cried out for a long soak in a warm tub of water. If only she wouldn’t have to haul it from the well, and heat it, and haul it again to her wooden tub.
“Aren’t you going to take Mr. Stark his dinner?”
“Oh.”
Christian sprang from his chair before she could move. “I’ll do it!”
“Sit.” Jessica curled her son’s fingers around his spoon and glared at him over her pointed index finger. “Eat. I’ll tend to Mr. Stark.”
“ I wanted to,” Christian grumbled into his soup.
“I don’t believe Mr. Stark is the sort a young boy like you should be tending to, Christian.” Carefully she arranged the soup and utensils on a wooden platter. “We know very little about him, after all.”
“He’s a stranger, isn’t he, Mama?”
Her gaze slid to the window and beyond, where the barn crouched in dusky shadows. Somewhere within, Stark lurked in the shadows, as well, with his horse, his knife, perhaps a gun.
“Strangers are mean.”
“Not all strangers,” Jessica replied.
“Mr. Stark’s not.”
“No, I don’t suppose he is.”
“He’s gonna stay because you shot him, right, Mama? And you shouldn’t have shot him, right?”
A frown quivered along her brows as she sought
“Napkins on the left.”
“I know. ” With his tongue curling out of his mouth, Christian folded the cloth napkins and placed them to the right of the stoneware plates. “He has a big horse, Mama. It’s black.”
“Imagine that,” she replied, repositioning the napkins on the left.
“It’s in the barn with him. I’m gonna ride it.”
“I don’t believe you will.”
“We can hitch it to our broken wagon.”
“We’ll get our own horse soon and hitch it to the buckboard, after Reverend Halsey fixes it.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“You always say that. Soon. Is that when Reverend Halsey is gonna be my pa?”
The ladle poised over the pot. “Yes, I suppose it is. Quite soon.”
Christian thrust out his chin. “Then we’ll never get a horse, because Reverend Halsey doesn’t like them. He says they smell.”
“And he’s right. They do smell. That’s why they live in the barn with the other animals.”
“Mr. Stark doesn’t smell.”
Yes, he did...like baked leather and warm male skin. Her arms went suddenly weak. The ladle banged against the bottom of the pot. “No...I mean, he...” All words left her.
Christian frowned up at her through his bangs. “So why does he have to sleep in the barn?”
The ladle stirred and stirred. Jessica sought her words from the swirling soup and found nothing but a heightened thumping of her pulse.
“He could sleep on the floor in your room, Mama. He’s too big for the bed.”
“Stop it, Christian,” she snapped suddenly. Too suddenly, her voice brimming with an odd agitation. Regret flooded through her even before she could reach out a hand to caress that blond head. But Christian seemed to shrug off her mood in his typical fashion. In another instant, his finger inched toward the blackberries. This time, perhaps because of her regret, she didn’t stop him, and directed all her thoughts to ladling the steaming soup. She watched the characteristic scrunching of Christian’s nose as he glowered at the soup and then his gaze darted to the stove, seeking. Would this ritual never cease?
“Mama—”
“You’re eating the soup, Christian.”
“But, Mama—”
“Sit.”
“Can I eat with Mr. Stark in the barn?”
“Mama wants you to eat with her. Here. Now sit.”
He thrust out his lower lip and slid half on, half off the chair. One bare foot kicked belligerently at the table leg. He scowled into his bowl and pushed his spoon around with his thumb. “It’s too hot. I can’t eat it.”
“Blow on it.” Jessica eased into the chair next to his and felt the blood drain from her legs. She hadn’t been off her feet since sunup. Her dress hung heavy with dust and a day’s perspiration. Even muscles she’d had no idea she possessed cried out for a long soak in a warm tub of water. If only she wouldn’t have to haul it from the well, and heat it, and haul it again to her wooden tub.
“Aren’t you going to take Mr. Stark his dinner?”
“Oh.”
Christian sprang from his chair before she could move. “I’ll do it!”
“Sit.” Jessica curled her son’s fingers around his spoon and glared at him over her pointed index finger. “Eat. I’ll tend to Mr. Stark.”
“ I wanted to,” Christian grumbled into his soup.
“I don’t believe Mr. Stark is the sort a young boy like you should be tending to, Christian.” Carefully she arranged the soup and utensils on a wooden platter. “We know very little about him, after all.”
“He’s a stranger, isn’t he, Mama?”
Her gaze slid to the window and beyond, where the barn crouched in dusky shadows. Somewhere within, Stark lurked in the shadows, as well, with his horse, his knife, perhaps a gun.
“Strangers are mean.”
“Not all strangers,” Jessica replied.
“Mr. Stark’s not.”
“No, I don’t suppose he is.”
“He’s gonna stay because you shot him, right, Mama? And you shouldn’t have shot him, right?”
A frown quivered along her brows as she sought
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