Her hands began shaking.
“No.”
Shaw stared at her.
“Mama?”
Maylin ripped away the paper.
Inside was a small wooden horse.
Painted blue.
One front leg raised.
A tiny star carved beneath its belly.
Maylin made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
Thomas had carved wooden animals during winter evenings.
He always placed a star underneath.
Only Thomas knew Shaw had asked for a blue horse the week before he died.
Maylin looked at Silas.
Her face had gone white.
“Where did you get this?”
Silas’s jaw tightened.
“Your husband gave it to me.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath her.
“You’re lying.”
“He gave me another one for Faun.”
“Thomas has been dead fourteen months.”
“I know.”
“You’re lying!”
The girls recoiled.
Silas remained still.
“Maylin—”
“Don’t call me that!”
Her grief exploded so suddenly that she hardly recognized her own voice.
“You come to my house wearing some dead man’s kindness on your back, knowing my children’s names, carrying something my husband made, and you expect me to stand here while you tell me impossible things?”
“No.”
“Then tell me the truth!”
Silas met her eyes.
“I will.”
“When?”
His gaze moved toward the storm.
“When your daughters are warm.”
Maylin almost slammed the door.
Then the dying fire cracked behind her.
She looked at Shaw.
At Faun.
At the wagon filled with food.
Pride was a luxury starvation could not afford.
Maylin stepped aside.
“You can unload the wood.”
Silas nodded.
“And the food.”
Another nod.
“You stay in the barn.”
He looked at the blizzard.
“The barn roof collapsed.”
Maylin closed her eyes.
Of course it had.
“Then you sleep beside the door.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And if you lie to me again—”
“I haven’t lied yet.”
Maylin looked directly into his eyes.
“Then God help both of us when you finally explain.”
Within an hour, the cabin changed.
Flames roared inside the stove.
The smell of fresh bread filled the room.
Faun sat cross-legged beside a mound of packages while Shaw examined the blue wooden horse as though afraid it might vanish.
Silas carried load after load through the storm.
Maylin watched everything.
There was enough flour for months.
Beans.
Rice.
Salt pork.
Coffee.
Honey.
Dried peaches.
Warm boots in three different sizes.
Two winter coats for the girls.
A heavy green coat that fit Maylin almost perfectly.
That troubled her.
So did the boots.
So did everything.
Someone had known their sizes.
Someone had known they needed lamp oil.
Someone had known Shaw loved horses and Faun loved dolls.
Someone had known almost everything about them.
When Silas finally entered carrying the last armful of wood, Maylin placed a bowl of stew before him.
“You should eat.”
He looked surprised.
“It came from your wagon.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He sat.
The girls watched him.
Faun was first to speak.
“Did Papa really give you my present?”
Maylin stiffened.
Silas slowly put down his spoon.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A while ago.”
“How long?”
Silas looked toward Maylin.
She folded her arms.
“No more mysteries.”
He sighed.
“Fourteen months ago.”
Maylin’s heart tightened.
“Before the mine collapse?”
