“Yes, I’m ready,” she said. Her valise packed full with all but her mother’s shawl, she approached Tess. “Thank you for…” She looked around the kitchen, then back at the woman who’d come to her aid. “For everything,” she finished lamely. “I appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Dillard.”
“I think you might call me Tess.” Her fingers touched Ellie’s cheek and warmth flooded the area, as though affection gave healing to the skin she stroked. “I’ll be over to look in on you tomorrow. Doc says you need foodstuffs, so just make a list and I’ll carry it to you.”
The immensity of her situation seemed staggering as Ellie considered the offer. “I don’t even know what he likes to eat,” she murmured.
“Most anything you cook will be better than what he’s been puttin’ in his stomach lately. I’ll get some staples together for you tomorrow,” Tess told her, turning her toward the back door. “You run along now. Things will work out.”
Things will work out. The words resounded in her head as Ellie prepared for bed. Clean sheets and a worn quilt covered the feather tick, and its comfort tempted her as she blew out the lamp and glanced from the bedroom window. A light blazed from the house next door, and she caught a glimpse of a woman’s form, silhouetted and unmoving. And then the shadow turned and the unmistakable burden of pregnancy altered the vision she watched.
A man entered the room and Ellie watched, unable to turn away, breathless as the tall, dark-haired figure approached. Bending to look into her face, he took the woman’s hands in his and then drew her against his body. The image of tenderness she beheld brought tears to Ellie’s eyes, and she turned away, feeling she had somehow violated a private moment.
Stunning in its simple beauty, the image beckoned, and she looked back. Only darkness met her gaze. The light was extinguished, the second floor room darkened.
She sank into the bed behind her. The feather tick welcomed her aching body, and she curled on her side, one hand pressing against the firm swelling of her belly. A movement deep inside caught her attention, and a gentle nudging pushed against her hand. She held her breath, and again the skin beneath her fingertips was rippled by the tiny presence within. With a sigh of delight, Ellie closed her eyes.
If there was truly a God watching over her, as the minister had said in a sermon on one of her occasional visits to church, then surely he must be taking a hand right now.
The woodstove was familiar territory, and Ellie peered into its depths to gauge the amount of kindling she’d stacked. She’d found a small case of sulphur matches in the pantry and placed a box of them atop the cookstove. Now with a scrape on the side of the box, she set a match ablaze, firing the kindling, then quickly added small lengths of wood. Watching as they caught fire and began to burn, she bent to the wood box, lifting three larger chunks, enough to make a good cooking fire.
In ten minutes she could begin breakfast, and to that end she scouted out the pantry shelves. A flour bin held enough for biscuits, and she found a can of lard with a good scoop left on the bottom. Sniffing it, she decided it had not gone rancid. But the addition of lard went on the mental list she was concocting as she worked.
A pot of coffee was the next detail, she decided, and a blue speckled pot sat on the back of the stove. She rinsed it at the pump and filled it halfway, then added a handful of coffee from a jar on the shelf. Cracking an egg, she dropped it into the water and placed the pot on the front of the stove, where the hottest fire would burn.
A knock on the back door caused her to tremble, and she looked over her shoulder, the thought of her father speeding to the forefront of her mind. A woman cupped her hand to peer through the screen door, and Ellie sighed with relief.
“Good morning.” It was a cheery greeting and Ellie hastened to open the door. “I live next door. He gets bread from me when he takes a notion, but he hasn’t got a fresh loaf for pretty near a week,” the neighbor said, her gaze sweeping Ellie from stem to stern. “I’ll bet you’re the young lady who’s going to be doing for him.”
“You’ve heard about me?” Ellie asked, astounded that the news had traveled so quickly.
“Tess Dillard told me late yesterday afternoon that he was thinking of taking on a housekeeper. The man needs looking after, sure enough.” The loaf of bread she carried was placed on the table and then the woman headed back to the door. “If you need anything else, just call out. I’m Ethel Talbert. My husband Harry owns the barber shop.”
She was past the screen door and halfway across the yard before Ellie caught her breath. Scurrying across the kitchen, she leaned out the door. “Mrs. Talbert, where can I buy some milk?” The biscuits could be put together with water, but they wouldn’t be near as good, and, for Winston Gray, Ellie would beg, borrow or steal what she needed to serve him a decent meal.
“Land sakes, child. I didn’t think about that. I’ve got extra. Come along and I’ll send you some back.”
Patting her hair and brushing the flour from her hands on a dish towel, Ellie scampered across the yard, past the hedge of bushes and up to the neighbor’s back door. A quart jar was being filled from a crock, even as she watched through the screen, and in moments Ellie was carrying it back to Win’s kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Win stood just inside the doorway, rolling up his shirtsleeves as Ellie scooted past him. “You out visiting already?” He reached to brush at her cheek. “You’ve got flour dust all over your face,” he said, grinning at her.
“I thought I wiped it all on the towel before I went to Mrs. Talbert’s house. I just borrowed some milk from her so I can make biscuits. I hope you have baking powder or soda.”
“Both, I suspect,” he said, entering the pantry. “Though I don’t think I’ve used either. When I moved in, Tess brought over what she thought I needed to furnish my kitchen, but most of it is still just like it was that day. I’m not much of a cook.”
He sat down at the table, watching Ellie knead the biscuits, then cut them into circles with a water glass and place them on the baking pan she’d located.
“You do that well,” he said, sounding pleased. “This idea is gaining ground.” He peered past her to the stove. “Is that coffee I smell?”
Ellie nodded and found a cup for him. “If you have something you need to do, I’ll start the eggs in a few minutes. The biscuits won’t take long.”
He chuckled. “I’m enjoying this, Ellie. No one’s cooked for me since I left home, and that was a long time ago.” He sipped from the cup and placed it on the table. “Did you sleep well?”
“How could anyone not sleep, all cozied up in a feather tick?” she asked. And then remembered the neighbors in their bedroom. “Who lives on the other side of you, the house I see out my window?”
“That’s the sheriff, James Kincaid, and his wife, Kate. She’s been teaching school for a little over a year now. They say she’s a crackerjack. Keeps the big boys in line. The kids all seem to like her. Word is she’s a good teacher.”
“And they’re going to let her keep on teaching after the baby’s born?”
“Yeah, I understand the town council has given permission for her to take the baby to school with her unless she’s decided to get someone to watch it. They’ve really gone overboard to keep the sheriff happy. In fact, school was in session early this year. They figure to let the students out for a couple of weeks when Kate delivers.”
The biscuits were golden and tender, the eggs scrambled and waiting, and Ellie poured a second cup of coffee for Win as he picked up his fork. “Aren’t you eating with me?” he asked. “Get yourself a plate, Ellie. You cooked enough for both of us.”
The intimacy of sitting at a breakfast table with a man was unsettling, Ellie thought. Her father had insisted on her staying