"Did you like it?"
"Sometimes. It had its good parts and its bad parts, like anywhere else."
"What were the good parts?"
Norah thought about it.
"There was a park near where I worked. In spring, the trees would bloom all at once and the whole place would smell like flowers. I used to eat lunch there when I could afford to take a break."
"What were the bad parts?"
"The bad parts were why I left."
She didn't elaborate, and Ru was smart enough not to push.
They worked in comfortable silence for a while.
Then Ru spoke again.
Quieter this time.
"Do you miss your old life?"
"Parts of it. Not most of it."
"Do you like it here?"
Norah looked at this small boy who'd asked the question like he was afraid of the answer.
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Really."
"It's hard and it's cold and half the time I don't know if we're going to make it through the week. But yes. I like it here."
"Why?"
"Because I matter here. Back in St. Louis, I was just one more person in a city full of people. Here, what I do makes a difference. You boys would eat worse without me. The house would be dirtier. Your father would be lonelier. That matters."
Ru considered this seriously.
"You matter to me."
Norah's hand stilled on the dough.
"Thank you, honey. You matter to me too."
"More than your old life?"
"Much more."
Ru smiled.
A real smile.
Not the careful half-smiles he usually gave.
Then he went back to measuring ingredients, and Norah went back to kneading.
And neither of them mentioned how much that small exchange had meant.
That night, everything changed.
It started with a sound.
Horses approaching fast through snow that should have made fast travel impossible.
Then voices.
Men's voices.
Rough and unfamiliar.
Then pounding on the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Harlon grabbed his rifle.
Thomas did the same.
The younger boys scattered upstairs without being told.
"Stay back," Harlon ordered Norah.
She ignored him and moved to where she could see the door, but wouldn't be in the direct line of fire if shooting started.
Harlon opened the door carefully, rifle ready.
Three men stood on the porch.
They were bundled against the cold, but their faces were visible enough.
Hard faces.
The kind that came from hard living and harder choices.
The one in front was older, maybe 50, with a scar running from his eye to his jaw.
The two behind him were younger, their hands resting casually near their gun belts.
"Help you?" Harlon asked.
His voice was neutral.
His stance anything but.
"Looking for shelter," the scarred man said. "Storm caught us on the road. Saw your light."