Scully met the child’s gaze. “It was my mama’s maiden name,” he said.

“Is that what they called her?” Abigail asked, frowning. “ ‘Scully,’ I mean?”

He chuckled. “No, Punkin. Her given name was Mary Ann.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Abigail,” Evangeline interceded. The child was curious about everything, whether it was any of her business or not.

Scully gave Evangeline an amused look, then turned the full dazzle of his smile on Abigail. “She was uncommonly pretty. My daddy had to chase her real hard to get himself caught.”

Abigail pursued this slight juxtaposition and cornered it right away. “If you chased my mama real hard,” she ventured, at some length, “would you let her catch you?”

A heavy silence landed on the room like a boulder rolling down a steep hill. Evangeline could have melted into a puddle and dripped through the floorboards like so much warm wax. Her face heated and she couldn’t meet Scully’s eyes for the life of her, though she knew he was looking at her, and grinning. She felt that grin on her flesh, as bold and heated as summer sunshine. “Abigail,” she protested miserably, “for mercy’s sake!”

Scully took his time answering, and when he did, he’d brought his expression under control and his voice was grave. “I guess I would,” he said gently, “but your mama is spoken for, and that’s that.”

Evangeline was torn, as so often happened with Scully, between laughter and tears. He wanted her—she had hardly dared hope he might care for her the way she cared for him. But he was right about her being spoken for, too. That was that, because a pledge had been made and neither of them would ever be able to live with themselves if it was broken.

They didn’t play checkers that night, Scully and Evangeline, or talk quietly by the fire as they sometimes would. There was a certain tautness in the air that made close society impossible, for the time being at least, so they went their separate ways, Scully retiring to the lean-to with a lamp and a book, Evangeline knitting by the light of the fire until very late.

For once, she was awake before Scully that following morning, and she had coffee brewed and breakfast cooking when he came out of the lean-to, fully dressed. He washed up and approached the table, and Evangeline turned her back, pretending to be busy with the eggs, still unable to face him.

He stood behind her; she felt the flesh at the sides of her waist quiver, as though he were about to put his hands there. But in the end he didn’t touch her at all.

“Evangeline,” he said quietly. “Turn around and look at me.”

She obeyed, not because he’d asked that of her, but because she was following some instinctive command from within herself.

“We can’t go clear through to spring without talking to each other,” he said.

She was unable to speak, but there was no denying his reasoning. It was a long time ’til April—just not long enough.