Lena had lasted eleven days.
She had come to Cedar Hollow with fifty-three dollars, three dresses, a cast-iron baking pan, her mother’s recipes, and no intention of ever again depending on another person’s kindness.
The bakery had originally been a smoke-damaged storeroom behind the mercantile.
The owner charged almost nothing because the roof leaked and rats had lived behind the wall.
Lena repaired what she could herself.
She scrubbed.
Whitewashed.
Bought flour on credit.
Baked six loaves the first morning.
Sold three.
The second morning she sold four.
By the third month she was baking twenty loaves a day, along with pies, biscuits, and small cakes whenever sugar was affordable.
Not wealth.
But hers.
Every coin.
Every decision.
Every hour.
And now Reid Mercer appeared almost every morning at ten.
He bought one loaf.
Sometimes two.
He never lingered more than a minute.
He did not flirt.
He did not ask personal questions.
He simply came in, removed his hat, said good morning, bought bread, and left.
For twelve consecutive days.
On the thirteenth, he did not come.
Lena noticed at ten-oh-five.
She told herself that meant nothing.
At ten-thirty she put his usual loaf on the ordinary shelf with the others.
At eleven she sold it to the blacksmith.
At eleven-fifteen she became angry with herself for caring.
At noon, snow began.
By one, it had become serious.
A wall of pale gray swallowed the street.
Lena was pulling the shutters closed when the bakery door opened.
Reid stepped inside covered in snow.
His hair was wet.
His coat shoulders white.
“You’re late,” Lena said before she could stop herself.
He looked at her.
Then smiled.
“You noticed.”
“I notice customers.”
“I’m touched.”
“Don’t be.”
He removed his hat.
“Any bread left?”
“No.”
His smile disappeared.
“All gone?”
“You were two hours late.”
“Fence came down.”
“That sounds more important than bread.”
“Not according to my daughter.”
Lena looked at him.
He seemed to realize he had said too much.
“What does your daughter have to do with it?”
Reid rubbed snow from his sleeve.
“She likes your bread.”
“That’s why you’ve been buying it?”
“Partly.”
Something strange moved inside Lena’s chest.
Relief first.
Then embarrassment because she had needed relief.
She turned toward the worktable.
“I have dough for tomorrow.”
“Can I buy it?”
“It isn’t baked.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You want raw dough?”
“No.”
“I’m confused.”
Reid stepped closer to the counter.
“Could you bake one more?”
“Now?”
“If it’s trouble, forget I asked.”
Lena looked toward the oven.
The fire was still hot.