“You’re allowed to sleep.”
Margaret glanced at him. “So are you.”
“I’m not.”
“Then perhaps we are both stubborn.”
He almost smiled.
She had found the flour, molasses, and ginger. A bowl of dough rested beneath a cloth.
“Clara asked about gingerbread,” she said. “I thought I would prepare it before she woke.”
“You found everything?”
“Your pantry is better organized than mine ever was.”
“Anne insisted on it.”
“I can tell.”
Eli poured coffee. “You knew Anne well enough to recognize her habits?”
Margaret paused.
“I knew her generosity better than her habits.”
He accepted that.
The cabin was warm, but a chill lingered around the edges of the room. Eli went to the door and checked the latch, then looked out toward the barn.
“We’ll need to clear the path before the animals are fed.”
“I can help.”
“You should rest.”
“I’ve rested.”
“You crossed the prairie in a blizzard.”
“And I’m still standing.”
He looked at her, then nodded.
“We’ll see what the snow allows.”
Clara appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes.
“Merry Christmas!”
Eli lifted her into his arms. “Merry Christmas, little bird.”
She looked toward Margaret and gasped.
“You made gingerbread!”
“Not yet. It needs to bake.”
“Can I help?”
“If your father says yes.”
Clara turned pleading eyes on Eli.
He pretended to consider. “You may help if you wash your hands and promise not to eat the dough.”
“I promise.”
Margaret smiled. “Then we have a bargain.”
For the next hour, the cabin filled with a kind of happiness Eli had almost forgotten was possible. Clara measured flour with solemn concentration, though half of it landed on the table. Margaret showed her how to roll the dough and press out little stars. Eli repaired a loose chair rung by the hearth, pretending not to notice when Clara dusted his sleeve with flour.
The first batch emerged unevenly shaped but fragrant. Clara declared them perfect.
“They’re better than Papa’s,” she announced.
“That’s a low standard,” Margaret replied.