Scully brought up a sigh from somewhere deep down. “All right, then,” he said, like a man laying his head on the block. “Have at it.”

They were indeed soothing, the rhythmic, ritual-like motions of combing and snipping. Locks of Scully’s hair fell to the hearth, bright as coins in the firelight; it was thick stuff, quite coarse and yet uncommonly soft, like the best embroidery thread. Evangeline kept things in perspective, insofar as she could, by imagining herself trimming Big John’s hair, assuming, that is, that he had any to spare. The likeness he’d sent her might, after all, have been made a long time before.

When the barbering was finished, Evangeline shook out the flour-sacking, close to the fire, and swept the snippets on the floor in next. Scully was already up and peering into Big John’s cracked shaving mirror, which hung on the wall above the washstand.

Evangeline smiled. “You are vain, Scully Wainwright,” she accused. “I never would have guessed it.”

He turned to her and grinned. “How about playing that checkers game?”

They sat for hours, face to face at the table by the fire, and Evangeline was warmed by Scully’s presence as well as the blaze on the hearth. Scully won more games than she did, and won them soundly, but she held her own, and when they both agreed that it was time to go to bed, she was much calmer than before. It was as though he had taken her into his arms and held her, smoothed her hair and told her everything would be all right—all the things she’d yearned for but never gotten from Charles or any other man—even though all he’d really done was let her cut his hair and participate in a few rounds of checkers.

Strange, she thought, as she undressed in the darkness, hearing Scully moving about in the lean-to, how such simple things could feel so much like love.

* * *

Abigail’s fever rose in the night, rose so high that Evangeline felt the heat in her own flesh. She flew out of bed and groped for a lantern and matches, all the while calling for Scully.

He came, of course, and quickly, barefoot and wearing only a pair of mis-buttoned trousers.

“It’s happening!” Evangeline cried. “Dear God, Scully, do something! Help her!”

He took hold of her upper arms and gave her a small but sobering shake. “Stop it, Eve. You need a cool head for this.”

“Get snow,” Evangeline whimpered, pulling away from him, clawing at the covers that half buried her now-sweating daughter. “Get snow!”

“That won’t work again,” Scully said, damnably calm. He moved past Evangeline and, lifting the child up into his arms, bedding and all, carried her over by the fire, where he could see her better. The quilt dragged behind them like a bridal train, and Hortense followed, trying to catch hold of the cloth. “The thing to do now is keep her warm and dry. She needs another nightgown, Eve.”