She brushed her skirts, lest there be any lingering flour from the baking, and quickly hid the woolen stocking and the knitting needles in her trunk. As she passed the shaving mirror, she peered into it, assessing her appearance in a way that was completely unlike her. It wasn’t as though there was any hurry, either, because he was bound to put the horses away before he came in, and take care of the chores.

Sure enough, it was twilight when he stepped through the doorway, clearly chilled through and just as clearly pleased with himself. “Looks like the weather might hold for a day or two,” he said, taking off his coat. “I’ll start breaking those mares to ride tomorrow morning. After that, it’ll be easy to train them to harness.”

“Can I watch?” Abigail called from the bed. With the kitten and the fluffed-up pillows and several books surrounding her, along with the wooden horse Jacob had brought, she looked more like a little queen holding court than an invalid who had very nearly perished.

“No,” said Evangeline, remembering the way other men trained horses, breaking their spirits with whips and curses.

“Sure,” said Scully, at one and the same time.

Evangeline sent another look slicing his way. Undaunted, he crossed to the kitchen area and collected the water buckets, pouring the little that remained into the stove reservoir.

“Don’t smother her, Eve,” he said, in a low voice, when he drew near enough that Abigail wouldn’t hear. “Can’t you see what that ride this morning did for her?”

Evangeline lowered her head slightly. “It’s just that she loves horses. I don’t want her to see them suffer.”

“Suffer?” He looked honestly puzzled.

“When you break them,” Evangeline clarified. “I’ve seen it done and—”

A muscle tightened in his cheek, then went slack again. “You’ve seen it done wrong, then,” he said flatly, as though insulted. At that, he turned, carrying the buckets, and left the cabin without saying another word.

“What’s the matter with Scully?” Abigail demanded. Abigail, making demands again. It was an irritation to be celebrated, and Evangeline was full of thanksgiving and exasperation.

“I haven’t the first idea,” she said, with just the smallest quaver in her voice, and went about putting supper together.

Abigail ate at the table that night, chattering almost as much as she had before her illness, though she was still pale and weak and underweight to an alarming degree. Progress would be slow, Evangeline supposed, but at least Abigail was there, alive and taking a stronger and stronger interest in the things going on around her.

Scully, for his part, was quiet. He seemed to be over his pique, though, and just in a pensive mood. He did that, sometimes; just vanished inside himself. It wasn’t a bad thing, and it didn’t happen often, but it left her feeling a little lonesome when it did.

“What kind of name,” Abigail wanted to know, “is ‘Scully’?”

Evangeline hid a smile. She’d wondered that her-self, half a dozen times, but she hadn’t worked up to asking.