“Two questions,” Evangeline hissed at Scully, the moment they were alone, slamming the oven door on the nearly done turkey. Her hands still stung from rubbing the fowl down with salt. “First, why did you tell that old man we were married? And second, why did you invite him to sleep in the house?”

Scully did not look the least bit repentant. “He’s the worst gossip west of the Mississippi, to answer your first question, and he’ll stop at every farm, ranch house and town between here and Denver, spreading tales. I don’t want him saying you and I were here alone together, living in sin. As for the second question, we can’t ask the poor old codger to spend the night in the barn. He’d catch his death.”

Evangeline couldn’t think of a rebuttal to his first explanation, but she was ready for the next one. “Maybe you weren’t listening when Mr. Murdoch said he spent the last couple of nights in an Indian camp? He was probably right out in the open, and if he could survive that, he could certainly—”

Footsteps sounded on the porch, and Mr. Murdoch came in, his prominent nose even redder than before, the shoulders of his coat and the brim of his hat dusted with snow. Abigail accompanied him, her eyes shining, the kitten tucked and buttoned into her coat as a passenger. She held up a fat blue volume with gold lettering on the spine.

“Look, Mama. It’s all about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Guinevere, too.”

“Abigail—” Evangeline began lamely.

Again, Scully cut her off, this time by laying a hand on her forearm. “I’d be real grateful if you’d read to me out of that book now and again, Miss Abigail,” he said.

Evangeline looked up at Scully’s face, totally confused. She knew he was a person of honor, as she was herself. But surely he must expect something in return for such a gift, and she was troubled by the knowledge.

Supper was a festive meal, for Scully’s hard-won turkey made for a feast fit to remark upon, and the potatoes, gravy and baking powder biscuits met with a fine reception as well. When it was over, Evangeline cleared and washed down the table and Mr. Murdoch began to lay out the items he’d brought in from his wagon, for purposes of display. His mule was now safely ensconced in the barn, and the elderly peddler had seen to the evening chores, a courtesy which made Evangeline feel guilty for her former disinclination to let him sleep in the house.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t concerned for his comfort; she was, of course. What worried her was the shortage of beds, and the fact that Scully had claimed her for his wife. Even if Evangeline held her tongue, and she was far too embarrassed not to, Abigail was certain to spill the proverbial beans.

Scully was in a buying mood, it turned out, and while Evangeline might have been suffering from a severe cash shortage, he obviously was not. He selected bolts of fabric, some plain and some fancy, with much advice from Abigail, and added thread and buttons to the bounty as well. He chose colorful yarns, which Mr. Murdoch said had come all the way from the woolen mills in Great Britain, and knitting needles in assorted sizes. He bought more books, a stack of them, as well as the tobacco he’d mentioned earlier and a large part of the peddler’s stock of canned fruit, vegetables, and meats. Evangeline was amazed; she had never seen such reckless spending, and yet when Mr. Murdoch tallied up the considerable bill, Scully paid in cash, without so much as a grimace.