“I don’t.”

Her disappointment appeared immediately.

Jack began closing the door.

Then the child peeked around her mother.

Golden curls.

Round cheeks pink from cold.

And blue eyes.

Jack’s hand froze.

The girl stared solemnly at him.

Lucy’s eyes.

Impossible.

Pain struck him beneath the ribs.

Sarah noticed.

“I can cook,” she continued quickly. “And clean. I’m not asking for charity. Reverend Hale said several ranch hands might come Christmas afternoon.”

“They aren’t coming.”

“Oh.”

“I canceled it.”

Jack had agreed months earlier to feed four unmarried ranch hands Christmas dinner. Yesterday he had told them to celebrate in Pine Hollow instead.

Sarah nodded.

“I understand.”

She turned.

The little girl stumbled through the snow.

Jack saw the soles of her boots.

One had nearly worn through.

“Wait.”

Sarah turned.

He hated himself for the next words even while speaking them.

“I could use some bread.”

She blinked.

“And maybe something decent for Christmas Eve.”

Hope flickered across her exhausted face.

“How much work?”

“Three days.”

Jack calculated.

“Twenty dollars.”

Her mouth opened.

Twenty dollars was more than some cooks earned in weeks.

“Twenty?”

“You’ll earn it.”

Her chin lifted slightly.

“I always do.”

Jack stepped aside.

“It’s only until Christmas.”

Sarah entered.

Gracie followed.

The child stopped in the hallway and studied Jack.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She hid behind her mother.

Sarah smiled.

“Grace Collins. Everyone calls her Gracie.”

Jack felt something cold pass through him.

Grace.

Years ago, when Mary had thought she might be expecting another baby, they had sat together beneath the cottonwood tree discussing names.

“If it’s another girl,” Mary had said, “Grace.”

The baby never came.

Jack had forgotten the conversation until that moment.

Or believed he had.

That night, after Sarah and Gracie returned to Reverend Hale’s boarding room in town, Jack stood alone outside Lucy’s door.

The key felt heavy in his palm.

He unlocked it.

Dust floated through moonlight.

Nothing had changed.

The little rocking horse.

The faded curtains.

The books.

The porcelain doll with one cracked cheek.

Jack sat on Lucy’s bed.

He touched the blue quilt.

Memory crashed through him.

“Again, Papa.”

“One story.”

“Two.”

“One.”

“One long one.”

Mary laughing from the doorway.

Lucy jumping beneath the blanket.

Jack pretending dragons lived in the barn.

He bowed his head.

For the first time in years, he cried without trying to stop.

The next morning, Jack cleaned the room.

Not because he intended anyone to use it.

He told himself that repeatedly.

He simply cleaned it.

Then he repaired a chair in the kitchen.

Then a cabinet door.

Then the broken latch on the west bedroom window.

By afternoon, he had ridden into Pine Hollow.

Mrs. Parker looked up from the counter of the general store.

“Jack Callahan?”

Jack ignored the surprise.

“I need flour.”

“You own flour.”

“More.”

“Sugar?”

“Yes.”

“Cinnamon?”

He hesitated.

“Yes.”

Her eyebrows climbed.

Jack pointed toward several small pine trees outside.

“How much?”

Mrs. Parker stared.