The routine soothed her, it always had. They had a surfeit of milk and cream, but of course Bessie had to be attended to anyway. Perhaps she would make some cheese, Evangeline speculated. That would be a nice addition to their winter diet. When the ground thawed, she’d hoe out a patch of grass and put in a vegetable garden. Then later, as the summer waxed and waned, the trees planted in rows on the hill—peaches, pears and apples, Scully had told her—would surely bear at least some fruit, young as they were. She intended to preserve plenty of peaches and pears, as well as making jams and jellies and drying some of the apples for pies.

Her mind was filled with these cheerful plans when suddenly the hairs on her nape prickled, and every muscle in her body stiffened. She wasn’t certain whether she had heard a sound, or if some previously unrecognized sense had alerted her, but she knew something was wrong.

She stopped milking, reached slowly for the rifle leaning against a nearby support post, and turned toward the barn door. Abigail, having wooed a mewing kitten out from behind the boxes, stood stiffly.

“Mama,” she said, barely breathing the word.

Evangeline stared at the Indian standing before her, the twilight gathering at his back. He wore buckskins, carried a knife in his belt, and a cluster of brownish feathers fell from a thin braid in the midst of his raven-black hair. His face was gaunt, his eyes wary and over bright.

“Woman,” he said. It was almost like a plea, the way he said the word, but that was no consolation. He was an Indian and she was alone, and Abigail’s very life depended upon her.

Evangeline’s heart thundered in her breast, nearly deafening her. She held the rifle as steadily as she could. “What do you want?” she asked.

“Woman,” he said again, making a despondent, rolling gesture with one hand. The kitten squirmed out of Abigail’s grasp and scampered over the straw-strewn floor of the barn to bat at the Indian’s foot with one tiny paw. The man looked pained. Then he laid a hand to his belly and made a circle.

“He’s not going to hurt us, Mama,” Abigail said. “See? The kitty likes him.”

The kitty likes him. Evangeline might have smiled at her daughter’s naive logic, if the situation hadn’t been dire. She did not lower the rifle. “Be quiet, Abigail,” she said evenly.

The Indian mimed eating with curled fingers.

“He’s trying to tell you that his family needs food,” Abigail persisted.

“I know that,” Evangeline said. It wasn’t precisely true. Until a moment before, she’d seen the visitor through a haze of such stark terror that she hadn’t been able to reason. Now, the man looked desperate, rather than fierce. She gestured with the barrel of the rifle, indicating that she wanted him to step back, out of the doorway.

“Abigail Keating,” Evangeline said, without looking back, “you will stay in this barn, no matter what happens. You are not to leave until I come for you. Is that absolutely clear?”