They simply hadn’t.
Some feared illness.
Some feared Nolan.
Others feared rumors.
Nolan looked at his daughter.
“No.”
Maribel understood.
Grace began making small searching motions again.
Nolan’s eyes lifted reluctantly.
“I won’t ask.”
“You already did.”
“I asked for milk.”
“And found it.”
His face tightened.
“I can’t bring her here six times a day.”
“No.”
“And you shouldn’t come to Raven Hollow.”
That surprised her.
“Why not?”
“Because people will talk.”
Maribel laughed once.
It was not a pleasant sound.
“Mr. Pierce, people talked when my husband died. They talked when I continued running the bakery without a man. They talked when Matthew was born seven months after Thomas’s funeral and counted the months on their fingers as if grief followed arithmetic.”
Nolan looked away.
“They’ll talk worse about this.”
“Then perhaps they need better hobbies.”
Something moved at the corner of Nolan’s mouth.
Not a smile.
The memory of one.
Then Maribel said, “I’ll come for three days.”
He looked up.
“Three?”
“Until Grace strengthens. After that, we find another way.”
“Mrs. Quinn—”
“Maribel.”
The word surprised both of them.
He stared.
She busied herself folding a cloth.
“If I’m going to save your daughter from starving, you can stop calling me Mrs. Quinn every twelve seconds.”
After a pause, he said quietly, “Maribel.”
The way he spoke her name made the bakery suddenly feel smaller.
She cleared her throat.
“Three days.”
Nolan nodded.
“Three days.”
Neither of them knew that Maribel Quinn would not sleep beneath her own roof again for nearly four months.
Widow Creek discovered the arrangement by lunchtime.
By supper, it had become a scandal.
By Sunday morning, according to Mrs. Doyle, Maribel had moved permanently into Nolan Pierce’s bedroom, Grace had become her illegitimate daughter, and Nolan had apparently proposed marriage over a tray of cinnamon buns.
None of those things were true.
Yet.
The truth was less romantic and considerably more exhausting.
Raven Hollow Ranch lay six miles north of town beneath a line of black pines, its house built from dark timber and stone.
It was enormous.
And empty.
Eliza Pierce’s presence remained everywhere.
A shawl hung beside the kitchen.
A hairbrush rested on the bedroom dresser.
A half-finished piece of embroidery sat near the parlor window.
Maribel saw it all when Nolan carried her small traveling case upstairs.
“I can sleep downstairs,” she said.
“You’ll freeze.”
“The sofa—”
“Has a broken spring.”
“The chair?”
“No.”
She frowned.
“Do you reject every suggestion this quickly?”
“Only bad ones.”
She stared at him.
For the first time, Nolan Pierce smiled.
It transformed his face.
Maribel hated how much she noticed.
He gave her the guest bedroom across from Grace’s nursery and slept downstairs himself.
That first night, Grace woke five times.
The second night, four.
The third night, three.
On the fourth morning, Maribel packed her bag.
Nolan watched from the doorway.
Grace slept against his chest.
“You’re leaving.”
“That was the arrangement.”
“She’s stronger.”
“Much.”
“She still needs you.”
The words hung between them.
Maribel looked at Grace.
Then she looked away.
“I’m not her mother.”
“No.”
Nolan said it gently.
That hurt more.
Maribel closed her case.
“I can come mornings and evenings.”
“She eats more often than that.”
“We’ll try goat milk between.”
Nolan hesitated.
Then he said, “Stay another week.”
She should have refused.
Instead she asked, “Are you asking for Grace?”
