“How can a kiss be an accident?” Abigail asked. Her little arms were still folded against her chest, but she was starting to lose some of her steam.

“It happens. Between adults.”

“Like falling down and skinning your knee? Or burning yourself on the stove?”

Evangeline smiled wanly. “Yes,” she said. “It’s very much like that.”

“But you never kissed Papa by accident, or Mott. Or Mr. Murdoch, or Jacob, either.”

“Abigail, that is enough.” She set her daughter lightly on her feet. “Now, let’s make supper, shall we? After that, we’ll sew, if you’d like.”

Abigail made a face. “I don’t like sewing. You have to sit still to do it.”

“You have to sit still to read,” Evangeline pointed out, “and you love to do that.”

“Reading is different. Your mind doesn’t sit still, it goes all sorts of places.”

Evangeline gave up. It was difficult, if not impossible, to win an argument with Abigail. She had an answer for everything—usually, a good one. “Fine,” she said. “Then you might wish to take your mind on a little journey through your list of spelling words. You missed two yesterday.”

At supper, usually a time when everyone talked at once, nobody said much of anything. Abigail kept peering curiously at one or the other of them—first Scully, now Evangeline—throughout the meal, as though trying to reason out the mysteries of adulthood. The child’s earlier challenging mood had turned to one of confusion, and that proved, for Evangeline at least, just as troubling as the willfulness had. Everything would have been easier, of course, if Abigail’s feelings hadn’t been partly justified—but they were, given the contradictory nature of both Evangeline and Scully’s behavior.

Scully consumed his food, fried rabbit and boiled turnips, with his usual appetite, though Evangeline’s had abandoned her. She gave up on finishing her meal and left the table, preparing to wash the dishes.

“I’ll do that,” Scully said. His voice was gruff, awkward. He was trying to make something up to her, Evangeline thought, but what was it? The wolf? The kiss? The fact that as of April, May at the latest, he’d be gone?

Evangeline didn’t protest. She’d worked hard that day, as she always did, and she was ready to relax with her sewing, if not to retire. She suspected sleep would be a long time coming that night, and when it did, she was sure to dream about the wolf. Or see Scully, with his back to her, riding away on the Appaloosa, never once looking back.

Her throat felt thick as she nodded, not meeting his eyes, and went to fetch the dress she was making for herself. It was green, a color she hoped would flatter her, and usually just holding that fine cloth in her hands filled her with pleasure. That night, not surprisingly, was different. Her stitches were uneven, perhaps because her fingers were still trembling slightly, and at last she gave up the entire effort, thinking, with a sudden, poignant yearning, of taking a bath.