Cade and Porter were supposed to reinforce the chicken coop, but Cade had disappeared again, off trading supplies Norah had approved, though she was starting to wonder if the money he brought back was worth the risk he took getting it.
That left Norah with Reeve and Ru.
Reeve had barely spoken to her in the three weeks she'd been there.
He watched her constantly with those dark, unreadable eyes.
But whenever she tried to engage him in conversation, he'd slip away like smoke.
Ru, on the other hand, had attached himself to her with the desperation of someone who'd been starving for attention and finally found a source.
"Can I help you bake?" he asked for the 10th time that morning.
"If you promise not to eat all the dough before it becomes bread."
"I promise."
He climbed onto his stool, ready and eager.
"What do I do?"
Norah set him to measuring flour, watching carefully to make sure he didn't spill too much.
They couldn't afford waste.
Every ingredient mattered when supplies were this tight.
Reeve drifted into the kitchen, hovering near the doorway.
"You can help too," Norah offered.
He shook his head.
"You can watch, then. That's fine."
Reeve stayed where he was, silent and still.
They worked for a while in quiet, broken only by Ru's constant questions.
Why does bread need to rise?
How does yeast work?
Why does it smell like that?
Norah answered each question patiently, remembering when she'd been young and curious and someone had taken the time to explain things instead of just telling her to be quiet.
"Your ma used to bake?" Ru asked suddenly.
Norah's hands paused in the dough.
"Sometimes, when we had enough flour. Why?"
"Just wondering."
Ru concentrated very hard on measuring salt.
"Our ma used to bake every Saturday. The whole house would smell good."
From the doorway, Reeve went very still.
"That sounds nice," Norah said carefully.
"It was."
Ru's small face scrunched up.
"I don't remember her face anymore. Just the smell of bread. Is that bad?"
The question hit Norah square in the chest.
She set down the dough and crouched so she was eye level with the boy.
"No, honey. That's not bad. That's just how memory works sometimes. We hold on to what we can."
"Thomas says I should try harder to remember. That forgetting means she didn't matter."
"Thomas is wrong."
Norah kept her voice gentle but firm.
"You were two years old when she died. You remember what a two-year-old can remember. That doesn't mean she didn't matter. It means you were a baby."
Ru's eyes welled up.
"I miss her anyway, even though I don't remember her right."
"I know."
"Do you miss your first husband?"
"Sometimes. Mostly, I miss who I was before he died."
"Does that make sense?"
Ru nodded, though Norah wasn't sure he fully understood.
That was all right.
Some things you couldn't understand until you lived them.
Reeve turned and walked away without a word.
Norah almost followed, then stopped herself.
That boy needed space more than he needed conversation.
She'd learned that much, at least.