Mabel’s stomach sank.

“I understand.”

She turned.

“Wait.”

Her hand stopped on Elsie’s shoulder.

Gideon looked past them toward the distant road.

Then he stepped aside.

“The kitchen needs cleaning.”

Mabel stared at him.

“If you’re willing to work,” he said, “there’s work.”

The words nearly broke her.

She lowered her head so he would not see her eyes fill.

“Thank you.”

Calling Gideon Cross’s kitchen dirty was generous.

Dirty implied that cleanliness had existed there recently enough to be remembered.

A tower of plates leaned beside the washbasin.

Grease covered the stove.

Dust had settled on the shelves.

A frying pan looked as though something had died inside it.

Mabel removed her coat.

“Girls, sit by the table. Don’t touch anything.”

Gideon leaned against the doorway.

“I can pay you.”

“We can discuss money when I finish.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“You always negotiate afterward?”

“Only when I need the other person to see what he’s paying for.”

For the first time, Mabel thought Gideon Cross might smile.

He did not.

But something almost happened.

She rolled up her sleeves.

Then she worked.

She boiled water.

Scrubbed pans.

Scoured the stove.

Swept beneath cabinets.

Washed shelves.

Rearranged jars.

Opened windows.

Beat dust from curtains.

At some point, she found half a loaf of hard bread wrapped in cloth.

“Mr. Cross?”

“Eat it.”

Mabel froze.

“I was going to ask.”

“You were going to ask whether it was mine.”

“Yes.”

“It is.”

“Then I can’t—”

“Eat the bread, Mrs. Harlo.”

She looked at him.

He looked away first.

Mabel cut the bread into three pieces.

One for Lottie.

One for June.

One for Elsie.

Gideon noticed she kept none.

He said nothing.

An hour later, Elsie began crying quietly.

Mabel found her near the wall.

“What hurts?”

“My tummy.”

Mabel pulled the child into her arms.

“Almost finished.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I know.”

“Are we going to sleep outside again?”

Gideon, standing in the hallway, became utterly still.

Mabel kissed Elsie’s forehead.

“No.”

It was another lie.

She had no idea where they would sleep.

But she could not put that fear into a four-year-old child.

“We’re going to be all right.”

“You promise?”

Mabel closed her eyes.

“I promise.”

When she stood, Gideon had disappeared.

Minutes later he returned carrying a sack of potatoes, cured ham and a jar of preserves.

He placed them on the table.

Mabel stared.

“You said the kitchen needed cleaning,” Gideon said. “A clean kitchen ought to have supper.”

“I can cook.”

“I figured.”

“You’ll deduct the food from my wages.”

“No.”

“Mr. Cross—”

“I said no.”

Mabel’s pride flared.

“I don’t take charity.”

His eyes met hers.

“Then cook enough for five.”

That silenced her.

Supper was potatoes fried with onion, sliced ham and biscuits made from flour Gideon retrieved from the pantry.

It was not a feast.

To Mabel’s daughters, it might as well have been Christmas.