Flour container nearly empty.
Beans.
Potatoes.
Salt beef.
Two onions.
Molasses.
One jar of something she chose not to identify.
Mercy removed her coat.
Rolled her sleeves.
Then looked at Thomas.
“Wood?”
He pointed outside.
“Water?”
“Pump.”
“Good.”
Thomas hesitated.
“What do you need?”
Mercy looked around.
“A miracle would be convenient.”
For the first time, he actually smiled.
Small.
Gone quickly.
“No miracles.”
“Then bring wood.”
Thomas did.
The boys watched from doorways while Mercy scrubbed enough dishes to serve supper.
She fought the stove until smoke filled the room.
Opened the damper.
Tried again.
Fire caught.
Potatoes boiled.
Meat softened.
Bread dough came together reluctantly because flour was scarce.
One by one, the boys drifted closer.
The twelve-year-old finally asked:
“You gonna cry and leave too?”
Mercy continued kneading.
“I’ve cried plenty.”
He waited.
She pressed the dough.
“Never once found it made supper cook faster.”
The boy stared.
Then looked away quickly.
Mercy saw the expression.
Hope embarrassed him.
That was what she understood before anything else.
The boys did not dislike women.
They disliked believing.
Believing had become expensive.
So Mercy did not promise anything.
Not that night.
Not the next morning.
She unpacked her trunk after breakfast while Caleb watched from the hallway.
She placed dresses inside the wardrobe.
Nightclothes in the bottom drawer.
Hairbrush on the washstand.
A photograph of her mother beside the lamp.
Caleb leaned against the doorframe.
“You unpacked.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean you’ll stay.”
“No.”
His eyebrows pulled together.
Mercy sat on the edge of the bed.
“Caleb, I’ve known you less than a day.”
“You’ve known me the same.”
“Correct.”
“So neither of us has enough evidence to promise anything.”
He stared.
“You talk funny.”
“I read.”
He almost smiled.
Then did not.
Mercy added:
“I can tell you what I intend.”
“What?”
“To stay through winter.”
“And after?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s what they said.”
Mercy nodded.
“Then I suppose you shouldn’t trust me yet.”
That answer confused him.
Good.
Children surrounded by unreliable adults heard too many demands for trust.
Mercy would not make trust another chore.
The first week became a campaign.
Laundry.
Bedding.
Food.
The house contained more work than one woman should have been expected to perform.
Mercy said so.
Thomas frowned.
“My wife managed.”
“Your wife had help.”
“No.”
“Then your wife worked herself into the ground.”
His expression changed.
Mercy immediately knew she had stepped onto grief.
“I’m sorry.”
Thomas looked toward the window.
“No.”
He swallowed.
“You’re probably right.”
His wife, Anna, had died after pneumonia following a winter illness.