That solved one problem, anyway, Evangeline thought ruefully. She hadn’t had fresh trout in months, and the delicious smell overcame her sense of modesty. She got out of bed, moving Hortense gently aside to do so, and hastily put on her clothes. True to his word, Scully kept his back to her; she watched him the whole time she was dressing to make sure.

When she was fully clad, and in the midst of pinning up her hair, she cleared her throat. “All right,” she said, as formally as if they were in some fancy eastern drawing room, about to take high tea. “You may turn around now.”

Scully laughed, took the platter of fried fish from the warming oven, and carried it to the table. His amusement faded when he looked at Evangeline; it was as though she’d changed somehow, unexpectedly, and left him mystified in the process.

They ate, neither one speaking, while Abigail kept up a constant stream of chatter throughout the meal. Thank God, Evangeline thought, for Abigail.

“There’s a Chin-hook wind,” Abigail prattled. “Scully says it feels just like spring, but it’s not to be trusted because we’re in for a real hard winter. The caterpillars are woolly.”

“Chinook,” Scully corrected the child charitably, pronouncing the unfamiliar word shinook.

“This fish is wonderful,” Evangeline said, because she had to say something. Wolves and Indians notwithstanding, armed or unarmed, she meant to head for the privy the moment she’d finished eating. Her bladder was sure to burst if she didn’t.

Back east, in places like Philadelphia and Boston and New York, there were people with indoor plumbing. Evangeline envied them wholeheartedly in those uncomfortable minutes.

“Thank you,” Scully replied, after so long that it took Evangeline a moment to remember that she’d complimented him on the fried fish.

She excused herself as soon as she could.

Throughout that morning, the unseasonably warm wind blew, and snow slid from the roofs of the ranch house and the barn in glittering sheets. The earth softened, and the spring-scent of muddy loam rose from beneath the grass like blessed perfume. Abigail rode around and around in a circle on Sugarplum’s back, while Scully held the lead line and offered words of encouragement to both child and horse. Evangeline, determined to take advantage of the fine weather, brought out sheets and blankets and spread them over bushes, to be freshened by the sun and the breeze. The door and all the windows of the house were open, too, and she’d even ventured as far as the fruit trees on the hill.

They were bare, of course, but larger than she’d first thought them to be. She inspected several—there were twenty-two in all—and then stood on the knoll, her hands resting on her hips, watching as Scully taught Abigail to ride.

He was patient, and so was the mare. Abigail was in her glory; her delighted laughter rang out like the peal of a distant church bell, and she waved vigorously at Evangeline.