The others were obviously familiar with these tales and the youngest two clamored for this or that favorite. Anna was torn between enchantment at the ones that were obviously imaginary and terror at the ones that actually could have happened. And she wasn’t entirely certain she was going to sleep without nightmares tonight.

As the sun touched the western horizon, the sound of crickets filled the air, and lightning bugs began to appear in the bushes, Missus Sawyer closed the book with a decided snap. “Time fer bed,” she said. “Thet means all y’all. Yore Pa has ta be up in mornin’ early t’ look fer work, an’ we decided y’all’s old enough to he’p him now, Hal, so bed fer y’all.”

“Yes’m,” said Hal, looking a little rebellious and a lot excited. His siblings just looked raw with envy. Anna wondered why, if they had decided—obviously not today—that he was old enough to join his father at work, he hadn’t been along on her trip. And then she remembered that interchange between Hal and his father about how she was to sleep in the barn, and it came clear. Jeb had been taking no chances on Hal’s good behavior, alone with a strange girl and plenty of chances to take her off to the side to try for some kissing. There had certainly been some moments over the supper table and out berrying when he’d attempted to make cow-eyes at her, too, so that had very probably been a wise decision on their part. Hal clearly considered himself quite the ladies’ man.

“Wait here, Anna,” ordered Missus Sawyer, and shooed her offspring inside. She came back out with Anna’s little bundle, some folded fabric of some kind, and something small held in her hand. “Foller me,” the woman ordered, as the sun sank below the horizon and the sky turned red. Anna obeyed, following her into the barn itself. Missus Sawyer motioned to her to go up a ladder, and followed; Anna found herself in a hayloft about half filled with hay.

The big window that allowed you to bring hay in from wagons outside was wide open, allowing the sunset light to stream in. Missus Sawyer shook out one of the pieces of fabric she had carried up, and laid it down over the hay. “Thet there canvas’ll keep y’all from getting hay in y’all’s dress,” she said, and shook out the second piece of fabric. “An’ this’s an old shawl I ain’t used fer years. It’ll serve fer a cover.” Then she handed Anna what was in her hand—a biscuit wrapped in a bit of brown paper. “An’ this’s iffen y’all gits hungry, but mind t’ et it, or the mice’ll get it.” She smiled at Anna, again with that uncomfortable tinge of pity. “Sleep tight, missy. I’ll come git y’all in the mornin’—or if y’all wake up afore us, jest come wait in the kitchen.”

Then she climbed down the ladder, leaving Anna alone in the hayloft. Anna took her bundle, got out her comb, sat down on the canvas, which was old, soft, and pliable, and unbraided her hair to comb it out. She found an embarrassing number of tiny bits of blackberry bush in it. Probably too small to notice, or at least she hoped so—but maybe that was why Missus Sawyer had looked at her with pity, thinking her some slovenly sort who didn’t know any better.