“She said what everybody thinks.”
“No.”
“She said what she thinks.”
“She isn’t alone.”
“Neither are you.”
The sentence landed.
Lena looked away.
Reid stepped closer but did not touch her.
“You want to know what I think?”
“No.”
“I’m telling you anyway.”
“Typical.”
He almost smiled.
Then:
“I think you built a business from nothing.”
“I think my daughter loves being near you.”
“I think my ranch hands behave better when you’re around because they’re terrified you’ll stop selling them pie.”
Despite herself, Lena laughed once.
Reid continued.
“I think you are stubborn.”
“Difficult.”
“Too suspicious.”
“Sometimes impossible.”
She looked at him.
“And?”
“And I have never once looked at you and thought charity.”
Her throat tightened.
He held her gaze.
“The first loaf was for me.”
“The next twelve were for Emma.”
Lena waited.
Reid’s voice dropped.
“After that, I kept coming because I wanted to see you.”
Everything inside her went quiet.
Outside, a horse stamped.
Wind moved through cottonwood leaves.
Lena stared at him.
“That is a terrible thing to say to someone who has bread within throwing distance.”
“I considered the risk.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He laughed softly.
“That question is insulting.”
“I’m asking it.”
“Because I like you.”
“That isn’t an explanation.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
She searched his face for pity.
For obligation.
For some trace that Emma had created this.
She saw nervousness.
Reid Mercer was nervous.
That changed something.
Lena whispered:
“I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t need to do anything.”
He stepped back.
“I wanted you to know.”
Then he walked out.
Lena stood in the bakery holding the same loaf for nearly a minute.
Nothing happened for six weeks.
That was perhaps the most respectful thing Reid could have done.
He did not press.
Did not flirt more aggressively.
Did not ask whether she had made a decision.
He treated her exactly as before.
Which drove Lena mad.
Every morning she thought:
Will he say something?
Every evening:
Why hasn’t he?
Then she became angry at herself.
He had told her.
The rest belonged to her.
In August, Emma turned seven.
Lena baked a honey cake.
The celebration was small.
Ranch workers.
Two neighboring families.
Reid’s older sister came from Helena.
She had never met Lena.
She was kind.
That somehow frightened Lena more than hostility would have.
After supper, Emma opened presents.
A wooden horse.
Colored ribbons.
A storybook.
Lena gave her a small baking bowl with a wooden spoon.
Emma hugged it.
Then hugged Lena.
Lena froze.
Only briefly.
Then wrapped both arms around the child.