She’d been nearly twenty when Clara died without warning of a heart affliction, twenty-one when she’d married Charles, who had fallen into despondency after his wife’s death. Evangeline had wed Charles out of sympathy, out of gratitude and friendship, and because her only other choice was to take his son for a husband. The rites of matrimony had been difficult for both of them. Although they had had a child together, Evangeline had never once seen Charles without his clothes, nor had he looked upon her in a like state. They had intercourse only in the darkest folds of the night, when Evangeline would awaken to find him lying on top of her, prodding and poking until he found his way inside her body. It was always over quickly, which was a mercy, and Charles was invariably ashamed and apologetic after the fact, and unable to meet her gaze in the morning.

Evangeline blushed, just remembering the confusion she’d felt, the loss and the unceasing sense of embarrassment. The whole business was awkward and messy, though the pain she had been tacitly led to expect never materialized. No, she had learned little of the ways of men from Charles, only that they found the singular demands of their bodies extremely compelling.

Evangeline’s mind returned unerringly to Scully. She must not, would not, think of him in such a context. He was not, and never would be, her husband. She was going to marry Big John Keating, come the spring. Best she confine such speculations to him.

All the same, she couldn’t seem to help imagining what it would be like, to be touched by Scully. To be kissed by him, to be held against that hard chest . . .

The visions caused a stirring deep within her, like the fluttering of a feather, and Evangeline squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will it away.

* * *

The room was surprisingly warm when Evangeline opened her eyes just before dawn the next morning; she heard stove lids clattering softly, a sound rather like music from an old and beloved piano, heard the sizzle of something frying in a pan, smelled the delectable promise of crisp salt pork and eggs.

She stretched, thinking in those first hazy moments that she was still in Pennsylvania, awakening in her small room off the Keatings’ kitchen to one of Clara’s Sunday morning breakfasts. When Abigail stirred beside her, though, she remembered where she was. She sat bolt upright, pulling the fusty quilts up under her chin, and saw Scully in the glow of hearth-light, working competently at the cookstove.

Evangeline waited until his back was turned, then reached for yesterday’s dress, dragged it under the covers, and wriggled out of her nightgown and into the other garment. Abigail slept on, undisturbed.

“Mornin’,” Scully said quietly, when she came to stand with her back to the hearth fire, absorbing its warmth.

“You cook?” she asked, surprised. She was, after all, still half asleep.

He grinned, causing an odd tug midway between her navel and the place where she imagined her womb to be. “Somebody has to,” he answered. “Big John sure as hell—” He paused and reddened slightly. “Well, he can’t even soak beans in cold salt water without scorching the pot.”