“You’ve got a bright look about you, Eve,” Scully said gently, unexpectedly. “Reminds me of the way the sun shines on a new fall of snow.”

Evangeline dared not look at him, though she did steal a glance at Abigail, who was still engaged in whatever game she was playing with the tireless Hortense. “No one’s ever said anything quite like that to me before,” she confessed, not because she’d planned the words, let alone chosen them, but because she couldn’t help it. Scully was a rough-and-tumble cowboy and a stranger and who knew what else, but sometimes when he talked, it was poetry.

“That’s a shame,” he told her.

It seemed wise to change the direction of the conversation. “I guess it was the nap that turned me around,” she said, with resolute cheer. In point of fact, it did seem that she’d finally put the rigors of the long journey and the events that had preceded it behind her. Her fatigue was gone; she felt vital and strong, like a tree coming back to life in the springtime, vibrant with sap, ready to put out buds and then blossoms.

She peered at the nearest window, assessing the little light that remained. “I’d better get the chores done before it’s full dark.”

“Abigail and I did them earlier,” Scully said. The poetry was gone, replaced by a sort of easy distance, and Evangeline was both grateful and relieved. Up until that moment, that soundless sizzle had filled the room, a feeling like lightning trapped in a small space and fighting to get out.

She dared to look at him, though it was against her better judgment. “Thank you, Scully.”

He looked surprised. “For doing the chores?”

“That and being so good to Abigail,” she said softly.

“That part was easy,” he answered, with a grin.

They enjoyed a quiet supper after that, and when the dishes were put away, Scully read, Abigail drew pictures of horses on her slate, and Evangeline fingered the bolts of fabric Mr. Murdoch had left behind. She had not seen such fine goods since long before the war, and even then they’d been scarce.

In time, she became aware that Scully was watching her over the top of his book. “You do know how to sew, don’t you?” he inquired.

“Oh, yes,” Evangeline answered. She could barely believe all that wonderful cloth was for her to use, but it seemed pretty unlikely that Scully meant to sew it up himself, and Abigail, being so small, had yet to branch out from the simplest samplers. “I-I could make you some shirts,” she said.

His grin wounded her somehow, though sweetly. “I’d like that,” he said. “But I bought those goods so you could sew dresses and curtains and the like. Womanly kinds of things.”

“The expense—” Evangeline fretted, shaking her head.

“Never mind that. You saved my life, remember? Ruined a perfectly fine petticoat making bandages for this shoulder of mine. The least I can do is buy you a few yard-goods.”