He stood still as a cliff-side for another long moment, then turned. Evangeline could see the outline of him, that was all, and make out that he was leaning against the doorjamb like somebody who didn’t trust himself to stand upright.

Hastily, Evangeline dried herself off with the usual flour-sacking, pulled on her nightgown, and then her wrapper. “You can turn around now,” she said, in a whisper. She still couldn’t see him clearly, but she had no illusions that the reverse was true. After all, she’d left a lamp burning, however dimly, lest she stumble over something while making her way through the dark room to the bed. The hearth fire was banked, giving off little light, though the cookstove was going at full throttle, keeping the terrible cold at bay, if not actually warming the room.

Only when she was presentable did Scully finally leave his post in the doorway, moving quietly toward her. She had tossed a log into the fireplace, and crimson and orange sparks flew upward into the chimney as the blaze caught, noisy and fragrant.

“Maybe I ought to leave now,” he said, keeping his voice low for Abigail’s sake. “Right now. I could take you and Abigail to Springwater. Let you board there for the winter, with Jacob and Miss June-bug—”

“Wait a moment,” Evangeline interrupted evenly. “Much as I’d like to have friends close at hand, this is my home. It’s Abigail’s home. We’re not leaving, Scully, whether you stay or not.” She was well aware of the contradictions between what she was telling him then and what she had said earlier, about being safe, a part of a community; she’d been wrong then. She’d let fear do her thinking and talking.

He drew up one of the chairs, turned it around, and sat astraddle of the seat, his arms resting across the high back. In the firelight, he looked like some shaggy Norse god, albeit a reluctant one. He shoved a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Evangeline, you can be stubborn when you’ve a mind to,” he lamented. “And just today, you told me—”

“Nevertheless,” Evangeline interrupted, wishing, for no sensible reason, that he would call her “Eve” again, the way he sometimes did. It always made her feel as though they were starting the world over again, fresh, just the two of them, and Abigail of course. “I’m staying. Who’d look after the animals if we all just up and left?”

Scully sighed. “I figured on taking them to Spring-water, once you and Abigail were settled in.”

“Well, you figured wrong. You can go if you want to—nobody’s stopping you—but my daughter and I are staying right here.”

“You know I can’t leave you alone. Eve, why are you making this so difficult?”

She’d gotten her wish, he’d called her by that special name that no one else had ever used, in the whole length of her memory, but it wasn’t much consolation when you got right down to it. “I don’t mean to cause you trouble, Scully. If you want to move on, then you just saddle up that Appaloosa of yours and head out. Abigail and I will get on just fine.”