yet, but she’s getting her food put directly into her body through a tube.”
“And we have to put yours through your mouth.” Hilda made a sweeping gesture toward the stairway to the heavenly scent of her famous Hilda’s Crock-Pot Cacciatore.
“Mmm, smells like our favorite.” Maggie extended a come-with-me hand to Star. “And tomorrow, maybe you’d like to go to school with Jimmy. Just for a little while. Visit Mom for a little while, maybe have lunch with me.”
“I’ll ask my mom.” Star accepted Maggie’s hand. “Tomorrow, when she wakes up.”
Hilda served her guests at the table that had been in her kitchen since she’d taken over the store, basically the same kitchen she’d grown up in, although she’d replaced the woodburning stove with gas right after her father died. Daddy had refused to depend on anything he couldn’t harvest with his own hands. Not that he didn’t use store-bought—he ran a store, after all—but using and depending were two different things. Hilda had moved the stove downstairs and made it part of the country store décor. Her kitchen was still cozy, and any number of power failures and stranded gas trucks had given her pause to appreciate the little potbelly wood burner she’d kept in the living room when she was “updating.” Her TV was a little dated, but she didn’t have much time to watch it, anyway. She did love to cook, and she wished she had room for a bigger table and more guests.
Hilda got a charge out of sitting Maggie in Sam’s place. She’d had them figured for a match ever since she’d met Maggie, who would surely charge Sam up a bit, while he would offer her some good ol’ Western grounding. Every time those two came within sight of each other, you could already feel the current flowing.
After supper, Lucky lured the children into the living room while Maggie helped Hilda clean up the supper dishes.
“Is her mother going to wake up?” Hilda asked quietly as she slid four scraped plates into the mound of bubbles Maggie was growing in the sink.
“You’ve heard of trying to get blood from a stone? That poor woman. It’d be easier to get an IV into Mount Rushmore.” Maggie flipped the faucet handles and lowered her voice in the new quiet. “Has Sam been able to get in touch with her family?”
“I haven’t had much chance to talk with him, but I’m sure he’s trying. I guess he knows her pretty well.” She glanced up at Maggie. “Or did.”
“You don’t?”
“Never even heard the name.” She pulled a beats-me face. “My boys used to tell me everything when they were Jimmy’s age.”
Maggie glanced over her shoulder at the sound of one quick bark and two easy laughs. “When did they stop?”
“I’ve never asked. I’m satisfied with the way I remember it. They told me everything back then. Anything they don’t tell me now, I probably don’t need to know.”
“Until you do.”
“And then they’ll tell me. Sam will, anyway.” Soon, she hoped. “It all works itself out. Ninety-five percent of your worries never materialize, and four out of the other five turn out to be a whole lot less dire than you thought.”
“That leaves one percent.”
“Yes, it does. And that’s life.”
Maggie screwed her head and rested her chin on her shoulder to get another look at her son. “Math was never my strong suit, but it sounds like I could improve his chances by increasing the worries.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Hilda met Maggie’s questioning glance with a smile. “Math is not your strong suit.”
“I’m not the best worrier, either. I don’t want Jimmy to get shortchanged just because I’m a single parent.”
“That small percent is always gonna be there no matter how many parents a kid has. You can throw yourself in front of the bus, but he could still get hit.”
Maggie chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Hilda. You never give away the ending.”
“Speaking of which, have you finished the book for this week?” Hilda pulled a paperback novel off the top of the refrigerator. “Who suggested this, anyway? The wrong guy gets the girl.”
“Well, now I’ve finished it.”
“Just kidding.” She set the book aside. “Mr. Right always gets the girl. And Mr. Lucky gets—”
The dog barked. Hilda laughed, but he barked again. And again. She turned to the kitchen door just as it opened and the brim of a hat appeared. “It’s just me, Ma.”
“And you missed supper, but there’s some left.”
“Thanks, I’m good.” Sam acknowledged Maggie with a nod and took his hat off in one economical gesture as he closed the door behind him. “I still have some paperwork to finish up. Kinda lost track of some of the details.”
“It’s caccia-to-reee,” Hilda sang out. She knew he hadn’t eaten. As hard as she’d tried to feed him up, he was still as skinny as he was when he’d come home from the service.
“Smells great. If it’s gone tomorrow, you’ll know I got the midnight munchies.” He held up a big plastic bag. “One of the nurses said you’d taken charge of the little girl, so I brought over a few things that were in the room.”
Star’s little head rose above the dog-kid huddle like a periscope. “What room?”
“The motel room.” Sam cleared his throat, eyeing the child as though he was afraid he might scare her. Or she, him. Quietly he explained, “I thought you might need some clothes.”
“Where’s my backpack?”
“It’s safe in my office. I’m…” He shifted to a lower voice, his version of theatrical. “I’m the sheriff in these parts, so I get to—”
“You can’t have my backpack. All my stuff is in it.”
“I’m not going to keep it. Listen…Star?” He looked to Hilda for approval, and she nodded. That’s right, son. You’re doing fine. He squatted on his heels, hat on his knee, and offered the child the plastic bag. “Star, can you tell me where you and your mother live now? And how you got here?”
She peered into the bag. “We used to live in California, but not anymore.” She pulled her face out of the bag and told Sam, “We came on the bus to find my grandmother.”
“Where does your grandmother live?” he asked, his voice soft and gentle.
“Right here.”
Sam looked up at Hilda as though she was the one who owed an explanation.
“I need your help downstairs, Sam.” She nodded toward the door. “Can’t quite reach the Oreos. Maggie, would you give the kids some ice cream while Sam helps me get the cookies?” She glanced at Star. “And then we’ll go check on your mom. Okay?”
Hilda
