“What about your father?” I said. “Does he mind you coming here? Learning to read?”

Cate turned her face to the wall.

Larkin glanced at her. “He died when I was ten,” he said quietly. “Right after you came here to live.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry, Larkin.” I looked at Cate. The doll quivered in her hand. “Did she know him?” I whispered.

“She did,” he replied. “Very well.” I saw his throat working. “He was her son.”

I looked from Larkin to Cate and back again.

And suddenly I saw what should have been obvious. In the way Larkin was lanky and lean. In the shape of his mouth. His hands.

“So Cate is—”

“My grandmother,” he said.

Chapter Forty

It astonished me that neither of them had thought to mention that before now.

But I was not about to scold Cate, who was crying softly. Especially since I had told very little of my own story, and even that in fits and starts.

Nor would I scold Larkin, who had lost his father and, in a way, his mother, too.

So I simply let Cate cry herself to sleep while I bustled about, drying off the potato juice that ran down Larkin’s cheek, fetching the deerskin leggings to make a pillow for his head, and taking the liberty of looking through what else was in the trunk.

I set aside a clean tunic and some britches for Cate to wear when she was ready for clothes.

First, I would help her bathe if she’d let me.

“Is there soap?” I whispered to Larkin.

“There is. In a box on the top shelf there.”

“And washrags?”

“With the soap.”

“And a towel?”

He cast a hand toward a canvas sack near the door. “Soiled. But she’ll do her wash when she’s better.”

“Well, no. She won’t,” I replied. “You’ll do her wash today.”

He frowned at that. “I will?”

“While there’s plenty of sun. What does she use?” I said, looking around.

“There’s a tub in the shed behind the cabin.”

Oh, I thought. So that’s what she keeps in there. “Then when she wakes, you’ll strip her bed and heat some water for the tub and soap everything up good, rinse it out, hang it to dry. Save the water for her bath.”

“I will?” he said again. He sat up and let the poultice fall away into his palm.

I went to him and held out my hand. He gave me the wad of wet paper with the potato inside.

“Here, let me.” I carefully plucked some stray potato off his lashes and gently smoothed the starchy mess from his cheek with the edge of my hand.

“Thank you,” he said, patting his eye with his fingertips.

Enough of the swelling had gone to let him blink. But his face was still a wreck.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Cate was your grandmother?”