“Are you keeping house for him now?”
“No.”
“Does he eat at your table?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does that little girl call you Mama?”
“No.”
“Are you planning to marry him?”
“No.”
The last answer always came too quickly.
The truth was worse.
Lena had begun imagining it.
Not marriage exactly.
Moments.
Reid carrying wood into the bakery.
Reid sitting at the worktable repairing harness while she baked.
Reid laughing when Emma covered his sleeve in flour.
Reid asking Lena what she thought before making a decision that affected the shared yard.
He treated her opinion as useful.
That was dangerously intimate.
One July afternoon, the postmaster’s wife arrived at the ranch bakery.
Lena knew immediately the visit was not about pie.
The woman looked around.
“How charming.”
Lena continued arranging bread.
“What do you need?”
“A currant loaf.”
“I don’t make them Thursdays.”
“Oh.”
The woman did not leave.
She inspected the sign Emma had painted.
“So this is where you’ve settled.”
“I work here.”
“Of course.”
Lena looked at her.
The woman smiled.
“People worry.”
“About bread?”
“About Reid.”
Lena set down a loaf.
“He is an adult.”
“He’s grieving.”
“So?”
“Grieving men can mistake gratitude for affection.”
Lena’s body became very still.
The woman continued.
“That child has clearly become attached to you.”
“Emma likes many people.”
“But you provide something she needs.”
“Food?”
“A maternal presence.”
Lena hated the phrase.
The woman sighed.
“You seem sensible.”
“Do I?”
“I’m trying to prevent embarrassment.”
“For whom?”
The woman looked directly at Lena’s body.
It lasted perhaps half a second.
Long enough.
“For everyone.”
Lena understood.
Reid entered behind her.
Neither woman heard.
The postmaster’s wife continued.
“A man like Reid may be grateful.”
“That isn’t the same as wanting a wife.”
Lena’s face burned.
Then Reid spoke.
“You should leave.”
The woman turned.
Her face went pale.
“Reid.”
“I said leave.”
“I only meant—”
“I heard what you meant.”
The woman straightened.
“I’m concerned about your reputation.”
“No.”
“You’re entertained by hers.”
“That isn’t fair.”
Reid stepped inside.
“What part did I misunderstand?”
Silence.
The woman collected her gloves.
“I hope you both remember people are talking.”
Reid opened the door.
“People usually do.”
She left.
The door closed.
Lena kept her back toward him.
Reid said:
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“That happened here.”
“You didn’t invite her.”
“No.”
Lena picked up bread.
Her hands shook.
Reid noticed.
“Lena.”
“Don’t.”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
She turned angrily.
“What?”
His face softened.
That made it worse.
“Do not look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t.”