Samuel took a bite.
Grant did not.
Eliza remained beside the stove.
Grant waited.
She waited too.
Finally he asked, “Aren't you sitting?”
The smile disappeared.
“I’m all right.”
“That wasn't the question.”
She glanced at Samuel.
Grant immediately regretted the sharpness.
He softened his voice.
“There's another chair.”
“Yes.”
Eliza looked toward the stove.
“I thought I'd clean first.”
“The dishes aren't going anywhere.”
“No.”
Her fingers tightened around the saucer.
Grant watched.
Then Eliza looked down into the skillet.
Only burned fragments remained.
Brown potato pieces stuck to grease.
A small strip of bacon too hard to serve.
She swallowed.
“May I have what's left in the pan?”
Samuel stopped chewing.
Grant thought he had misunderstood.
“What?”
Eliza lifted the chipped saucer slightly.
“The potatoes.”
Her voice became quieter.
“And the bacon pieces.”
Grant stared at her.
“Those are burned.”
“They're still perfectly good.”
“For chickens.”
Eliza smiled weakly.
“I don't mind.”
Grant looked again at the table.
Two plates.
He finally understood.
“You didn't make yourself supper.”
Eliza's eyes dropped.
“I wasn't sure how much everyone would eat.”
“There’s plenty.”
“Yes.”
Her voice became careful.
“But I thought perhaps anything left—”
Grant pushed back his chair.
The wooden legs scraped sharply over the floor.
Eliza flinched.
Not startled.
Not exactly.
She stepped backward.
Her shoulders folded inward.
Her head lowered.
The little saucer pressed against her stomach.
Grant froze halfway out of the chair.
Samuel whispered, “Uncle Grant.”
Grant did not answer.
He was looking at Eliza.
He had seen men prepare to be struck.
Cattle thieves caught by angry ranchers.
Drunken hands expecting a foreman’s fist.
A boy at fourteen who knew his father's temper had reached the point where words ended.
Eliza looked like that.
All because Grant had stood up.
His anger arrived instantly.
But not at her.
That distinction did not matter if she could not see it.
He unclenched his hands.
“Eliza.”
She remained still.
Grant forced his voice lower.
“I’m not angry with you.”
“I know.”
She answered too quickly.
Grant knew that answer.
The answer people gave when they absolutely believed anger was coming and hoped agreement might shorten it.
He sat back down.
Eliza looked up.
That helped.
Grant picked up his plate.
He stood more slowly this time.
“May I come closer?”
Her eyes widened.
It was an odd question.
Perhaps no man had asked her one like it before.
She nodded.
Grant crossed the kitchen.
He stopped beside the unused chair.
Pulled it from the wall.
Set his plate in front of it.
Eliza stared.
“Mr. Mercer—”
“Grant.”
She blinked.
“We're married.”
His mouth moved slightly.
“Calling me Mr. Mercer makes it sound like you plan to sell me something.”
Samuel smiled.
Eliza did not.
“I wasn't trying to take your supper.”
“You didn't.”
“I only thought you might throw away what remained.”
Grant looked toward the skillet.
Then back.