She had enough dough.
Technically.
“It’ll take an hour.”
“I’ll wait.”
“An hour.”
“Yes.”
“You have a ranch eight miles away in a storm.”
“That’s why I’m not riding back without the bread.”
Lena stared.
“That child likes it that much?”
Reid’s expression changed again.
Softer.
“Yes.”
Lena turned away before he could see how much that answer affected her.
“Sit.”
Reid looked around.
There were only two chairs.
Both small.
He chose the bench near the wall.
Lena prepared the dough.
For ten minutes they said nothing.
The bakery smelled of flour, yeast, wood smoke, and wet wool.
Reid eventually spoke.
“You always work alone?”
“Yes.”
“Must be difficult.”
“There are worse things.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
He nodded.
She shaped the loaf.
“Your daughter’s name?”
“Emma.”
“How old?”
“Six.”
Lena slid the bread into the oven.
“Was she sick?”
Reid looked up sharply.
“Why?”
“You said she likes my bread as though that matters more than a child usually liking bread.”
He leaned forward, forearms on his knees.
For a while he watched the fire.
Then:
“She stopped eating much after her mother died.”
Lena’s hands stilled.
“I’m sorry.”
“Everybody is.”
The words were not cruel.
Only tired.
Lena understood that kind of tiredness.
Her own mother had died when Lena was nineteen.
For nearly a year everyone who spoke to her used the same softened voice.
She had eventually wanted to scream whenever somebody said sorry.
Reid continued.
“Doctor says nothing is physically wrong.”
“Grief can take appetite.”
“I know.”
“She eats nothing?”
“Enough.”
“But?”
“She picks.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Some days I can get eggs into her. Sometimes stew. Mostly milk.”
“And bread.”
“Your bread.”
Lena looked at him.
“How did she try it?”
Reid smiled faintly.
“The first loaf I bought?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t buy it for her.”
Lena blinked.
“Then who?”
“Me.”
She stared.
“I was hungry.”
A laugh escaped her.
He smiled.
“I know. Not very dramatic.”
“No.”
“I bought your bread because it smelled good from the street.”
“That is an acceptable reason.”
“I took it home.”
He paused.
“She came into the kitchen while I was cutting it.”
“And?”
“She asked for some.”
“That’s all?”
“That hadn’t happened in days.”
Lena said nothing.
Reid looked toward the oven.
“She ate half a slice.”
His voice dropped.
“Then asked for another.”
The room seemed suddenly smaller.
Lena turned toward the fire.
Steam had begun collecting faintly near the oven door.
Reid continued.
“Next morning she asked if there was more.”
“So you came back.”
“Yes.”
“Every day.”
“Yes.”
Lena folded a cloth unnecessarily.