Caleb studied the boy's work. Samuel had found a nail and a small piece of scrap wood, and he was trying to brace the axle with the seriousness of a man repairing a bridge.
“Let me see it after supper,” Caleb said.
Samuel's face brightened.
“Really?”
“Really.”
It was the first time in weeks Caleb had promised to help with one of his son's projects without immediately remembering another dozen tasks waiting outside.
Adeline set a bowl on the table.
“Wash your hands, all of you. Supper is nearly ready.”
The children obeyed, even Ruth, who had to be reminded twice to leave her buttons where they were.
Caleb sat down and ate slowly. The beans were seasoned with a little onion and dried sage, and Adeline had cut the last of the salt pork into small pieces so that its flavor spread through the entire pot. There was not much meat in the meal, but it tasted richer than anything he had eaten in days.
“Where did you learn to cook?” he asked.
“My mother.”
“Was she a good cook?”
Adeline's stirring hand paused.
“She was a good woman.”
Caleb understood the distinction. He had known women who could turn flour into a feast and women who could make a meal feel like a punishment. He had also known people who were kind in ways that never made it into a recipe.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
Adeline glanced at him.
“For what?”
“Your mother.”
A small silence settled over the table.
“She died when I was seventeen,” Adeline replied. “There wasn't much money left after the funeral, so I took work wherever I could find it. I learned to cook for families who had more food than they knew what to do with, and I learned to stretch a meal for families who had almost none.”
She lifted the pot from the stove.
“Both kinds of kitchens teach you something.”
Caleb looked at his bowl.
He had never asked how she had come to walk through a Montana snowstorm with a carpetbag and worn boots. He had accepted the explanation she offered because it was enough to explain her presence, and because asking more might reveal how little he knew about the person living under his roof.
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” Grace asked.
“No, sweetheart. Not anymore.”
Grace's spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.
“What happened to them?”
“Grace,” Caleb said quietly.
But Adeline answered before he could correct his daughter.
“I had a younger brother. His name was Thomas. He died when he was very little.”