“Can I name her?” the child asked exuberantly. “Can I call her Bessie?”

Scully laughed. “You could, I reckon, but it might cause some confusion, since that’s the cow’s name.” He put on his coat, looking at Evangeline over her daughter’s head. “That’s all right with you, isn’t it? My taking Abigail out to the barn later, to see the livestock?”

Evangeline was ridiculously glad that they were back on civil terms, she and Scully. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy of the only adult within a ten-mile radius, especially when that adult could ride and shoot. “I’d like to go along,” she said. On the farm in Pennsylvania, she’d kept a flock of chickens and milked the cow, too. The work had been hard, even grinding at times, and yet she missed feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, separating the milk, churning cream into butter. She missed the constant company of animals, too.

“You’d be welcome,” Scully agreed. His voice was oddly gravelly, and it took him a moment too long to look away. Hastily, he shrugged into his coat and went out, taking the rifle with him.

Once she’d brought Abigail’s plate from the warming oven and set it on the table, Evangeline found an old dishtowel to serve as an apron, tied it around her waist, and set to exploring the pantry thoroughly. The shelves were well stocked, which surprised her on the one hand, the ranch being so far from any town or trading post. On the other, it made sense that people facing a long winter in the wilderness would go to any lengths necessary to make sure they had the proper provisions on hand.

There were several burlap bags full of potatoes, turnips and onions, along with preserved meat and vegetables in tins, and the supplies of flour, cornmeal, dried beans and other staples were more than adequate. If the wolves hadn’t scared that poor cow dry, out there in the corral a little while ago, she could use the milk in a batch of fresh bread to serve at supper. That would be delicious with a simple stew, she decided. Some of last night’s hash remained, safely stored in a heavy crock and placed on a window-still between shutter and glass; it would suffice for the midday meal.

After she finished eating, Abigail used the chamber pot, scrubbed her hands and face daintily at the washstand, and dressed herself. There was a privy well behind the house, but making the trip without Scully and a rifle—or, better still, Scully and a rifle and the U.S. Cavalry—was out of the question.

Scully was gone a long time; so long that Evangeline began to worry about him, not that he’d appreciate the favor if he knew about it. He was a bachelor, used to doing things his own way and speaking his mind, and there was no earthly reason why he should be any different.

The wolves—or perhaps it was only coyotes—had begun to cry and wail again, in the distance, and the shadows were lengthening across the sparkling snow, when Scully came back. He carried two tin buckets, one brimming with fresh, foamy milk, one with eggs in the bottom.