Jack realized that too late.
He nearly reduced it.
Then saw her expression.
Not greed.
Relief.
Raw enough that she looked away quickly.
“Twenty?”
“Yes.”
“I provide the food.”
“Yes.”
“And I cook.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else?”
Jack frowned.
“What else would there be?”
Sarah held his eyes for a moment.
Then nodded.
“Nothing.”
Jack glanced at the child.
“And she comes with you.”
Sarah immediately straightened.
“She doesn't cause trouble.”
“I didn't say she did.”
“I can't leave her.”
“I didn't ask you to.”
Sarah relaxed slightly.
The girl stared at Jack.
Jack looked down.
She moved half behind her mother.
“What's her name?”
“Gracie.”
Jack's chest tightened.
Children’s names still did that sometimes.
He hated that.
“Hello, Gracie.”
She did not answer.
Sarah said:
“She's shy.”
Jack nodded.
“Christmas morning?”
“Early.”
“How early?”
“Before sunrise, if you need.”
Jack almost said no.
Nobody should walk that road before sunrise with a three-year-old in winter.
“Eight.”
Sarah looked relieved.
“Eight.”
Jack walked back toward the barn.
Sarah called:
“Mr. Callahan?”
He turned.
“Thank you.”
Jack had no answer.
He simply nodded.
Then watched mother and child disappear down the snowy road.
The farmhouse felt different when he entered.
Not warm.
Not yet.
But expectant.
That evening, Jack stood in the kitchen and looked around as though seeing the room through someone else's eyes.
Dust near the high shelves.
One chair with a loose leg.
Cupboard doors slightly crooked.
A blackened stove.
A table covered with receipts.
He spent two hours cleaning.
Then hated himself for caring.
He carried the receipts into his study.
Fixed the chair.
Scrubbed the stove.
The next morning he drove into town.
Mrs. Parker saw him enter the general store and smiled like someone who knew she had committed a successful crime.
“You found her.”
Jack stopped.
“You sent her.”
“I mentioned you might need help.”
“You told her I was hiring.”
“I improved the truth.”
Jack glared.
Mrs. Parker kept smiling.
“What do you need?”
Jack placed a list on the counter.
Flour.
Sugar.
Butter.
Coffee.
Potatoes.
Carrots.
Onions.
Fresh beef.
Apples.
Cinnamon.
Nutmeg.
Eggs.
Milk.
Yeast.
Mrs. Parker read it.
Then looked at him.
“You feeding the county?”
“Christmas dinner.”
“For three?”
Jack hesitated.
“Maybe.”
That smile returned.
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You're thinking loudly.”
She filled the order.
As Jack loaded the wagon, Mrs. Parker handed him a paper-wrapped package.
“What is this?”
“Ribbon candy.”
“I didn't order candy.”
“It's for the little girl.”
Jack stared.
Mrs. Parker became serious.
“She likes peppermint.”
“How do you know?”
“Sarah sometimes brings her here.”
Jack nodded.
Then put the package into the wagon.
Not because he cared.
Because returning it would be rude.