“Now can I see the horse?” Abigail asked, beaming.

“May I,” Evangeline corrected automatically, but her heart wasn’t in the reproof, and her mind was busy. She had found the crockery churn in the pantry and wiped it clean, and the flour, salt, lard and yeast had already been measured out for bread. She hadn’t found the separator yet, but she could skim the cream with a ladle and make butter later.

“Let’s get you bundled up first,” Scully said, and Abigail fetched her coat from the top of the travel trunk and returned to his side almost instantly.

“Are you coming with us, Mama?”

By then, Evangeline was eager to mix and knead a batch of bread and set the loaves to rise in the warming oven. “Next time,” she said. She gave Abigail a stern look. “You stay close to Scully every minute, do you hear me? Any number of things could happen if you wander off on your own.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “He won’t let anything hurt me,” she said, and laid her small, mittened hand in Scully’s with a trust that was consummate.

He hoisted the little girl up into his arms. “Snow’s over your head, small-fry,” he said. He wore a gunbelt, with a pistol in the holster, and it was only then that Evangeline realized he’d left the rifle behind when he went out the last time. “We won’t be long,” he said.

Evangeline smiled and nodded. Abigail was glowing; she’d missed the attention Charles had paid her, and she was clearly reveling in this time with Scully.

It was only when the two of them were gone that Evangeline’s joy faded a little. Abigail mustn’t get too attached to Scully over the winter, she thought; after all, it was Big John Keating who would be her stepfather, not his partner.

Baking absorbed Evangeline heart and soul; it always had. At St. Theresa’s, she’d worked in the kitchen, training that had prepared her well for her life on the Keatings’ farm. Soon, she was intent on her work, humming to herself as she kneaded and pummeled the dough, then finally set it to rise.

During that process, she unpacked the rest of her and Abigail’s clothes from the trunk. There was so little, really, in the way of possessions. She had a small Bible, a tintype of Charles, jointly framed with one of Clara, two battered books of poetry, a few combs and hairpins, an ancient cloth doll she’d received from a charity group as a Christmas gift one year, when she was a little girl at St. Theresa’s, and an assortment of other items. She had planned to pass the doll on to her daughter, after a little sprucing up of course, but Abigail had never really taken an interest in such things. She wanted to learn to ride, spit and shoot, in that order. As beautiful and delicate-looking as she was, the child had all the makings of a hellion.

Evangeline sighed and went back to the kitchen, where the stew was simmering on the back of the stove. She was taken quite by surprise when the door sprang open and Scully came in, carrying a giggling Abigail at his side, like a ten-pound bag of coffee beans.