While Ellis Gray made his way through the wagons, hearing complaints about water as if it was his fault the Lord had been so stupid as to forget to put a creek here, Charlotte set up her tin oven and baked six loaves of molasses bread.  It didn’t take long before she recognized the error of her ways.  She hadn’t foreseen the reach of the inviting aroma.  First, she noticed creeping in the grass beyond the wagon, then hands coming around the edges, noses, eyes, and suddenly she was confronted with three less than clean children.  The small girl’s apron bled red with berry stains down the entire front.  The two boys’ bare feet were black as coal.  Their eyes lit on her, making what kind of judgment she couldn’t even begin to guess.  Before her hand could fly defensively to her face, their eyes shifted entirely to the cooling loaves of bread.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said.  “I made these loaves to give to your mothers.  I’d let you eat some but maybe I shouldn’t.”  Children perplexed her.  Family matters in general perplexed her.

Another figure presented itself from around the corner of the wagon.  How could this have been such a bad idea?  The girl was possibly eleven or twelve, barefoot like the others, with wild hair and freckles across the bridge of her nose.  She wore a gingham dress that didn’t fit with torn petticoats showing underneath and a necklace of braided wildflowers.

“I think you should let them have some,” she said.

“And who are you?” Charlotte asked, her voice not entirely gentle.

“Ada.  And who are you?”  Ada’s voice was not entirely gentle either.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.  Are you in charge?”

“Of these I surely am.  They’re my brothers and sister.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said.

“What do you put in that bread to make it smell that way?” Ada asked, and it was almost a challenge.

“Molasses.”

“What happened to your hair?”

“It got cut off.  What happened to yours?”

Ada smiled triumphantly.  “Nothing,” she said.

“Then we’re even.”

“I don’t think so.  But you should give them some bread.  It’s not fair when it smells so good to have it just sit there.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not always,” Ada said and Charlotte realized that without thinking, the girl had taken her question to be meant in the larger sense.

“What about the other children?”

“I’ll go get them.”

Oh no.  “Wait,” Charlotte said.  “Let’s not do that.”  She thought a moment.  “Can I trust you?”  The others shifted their gaze impatiently back and forth from Charlotte and their sister to the bread.

“No.”

Charlotte stared the girl down. “Somehow I believe you.  Which one of these,” she said, gesturing toward the descending scale of dirty feet and curly heads, “can I trust?”