in the window of Jess’s house a short distance down the road and Sarah found her gaze drawn to it like a beacon on a stormy night. A figure moved across the window. It had to be Jess—big, sturdy, nearly blocking out the light. The place seemed inviting, with the children inside and, of course, Jess.
Sarah’s stomach tightened as she stopped in front of her own home. A single dim lantern burned in the window, illuminating the sagging porch, chipped paint and broken steps.
“I’ll see you inside.” Dwight’s voice spoke directly into her ear; she felt his hot breath against her skin.
Sarah pulled away. “No, Mr. Rutledge. That would hardly be proper.”
“You’re not in St. Louis anymore. Things are different out here. People in Walker don’t stand on all that formality.”
“Perhaps the people of Walker don’t, Mr. Rutledge. But I do. Good evening.”
Sarah hurried up the rickety steps, Dwight’s soft chuckle resting on the evening breeze. She went into the house and turned the lock.
A more unappealing meal she’d never seen, and it took all the control Sarah could muster to sit by and not offer some of her own food to Maggie.
The midday sun shone through the white, billowing clouds as most of the children closed their lunch pails and hurried off to play. Seated next to Maggie at the benches beside the school, Sarah looked down at the food the child picked at.
Chicken, probably. It was hard to tell under all that charred crust. And that black, hard lump might have been a biscuit.
“I see your uncle packed your lunch today.” Sarah smiled down at her as she ate her own meal.
Maggie nodded. “Uncle Jess cooks all the time. He lets me help. I read Mama’s recipes to him. But they don’t taste the same.”
Sarah’s stomach rolled. “No, I don’t expect they do.”
“That’s ’cause I don’t know all the words.”
“Then maybe your uncle should read.” Anything would be an improvement.
“He says for me to read ’cause it’s good to be able to read.”
Mildly surprised, Sarah nodded. “Does your uncle ever read to you?”
“No. Mama had lots of books. She used to read to me and Jimmy sometimes at night. But Uncle Jess doesn’t read them.” Maggie pulled off a crust of chicken. “He makes up stories. He says they’re better than book stories.”
“And are they?”
Maggie laughed. “They’re funny. Uncle Jess makes up funny stories. He tells us one every single night.”
Sarah laughed, too, unable not to. “Still, wouldn’t you like to hear the stories in the books and look at the pictures?”
“Uncle Jess says he can paint the pictures in our heads with the words. He says you don’t have to be able to read to make good stories.”
Sarah’s stomach knotted. Was that the reason for the unpalatable meals? Jess couldn’t read?
“Can I go play now?” Maggie licked her fingers.
“Certainly, dear.” Sarah’s thoughts ran wild, imagining Jess’s childhood, the horrible death of his family right before his eyes, then bouncing from home to home having little guidance. He’d been such a behavior problem, maybe no one had taken the time to teach him. Maybe Jess Logan couldn’t read.
Sarah pushed herself to her feet and stalked across the schoolyard. No. No, she wouldn’t get involved. She couldn’t. She had to keep to herself. She needed this job and she needed this town. She needed a home. And she would be a part of Walker—albeit a distant, detached part—no matter how much her heart ached to help.
With a deep, cleansing sigh, Sarah climbed the steps to the schoolhouse. Absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt, she would not get involved with Jess and the children. She would not.
“It’s just a simple stew. I thought you and the children might like some.”
Sarah held out the black kettle, bearing up under Jess’s harsh gaze from the back porch.
“I made too much for myself.”
His eyes narrowed.
“It’s beef and vegetables.”
His brows furrowed.
“It’s good.”
The line of his mouth hardened.
“It’s heavy.” Sarah winced and braced her outstretched arm with the other one.
He came down the steps and took the kettle from her, but still just stared at her.
“Besides, I owe you.” Sarah rubbed her forearm.
“For what?”
“Luke Trenton.” She waved him toward the door. “Put that on the stove before it gets cold.”
Jess looked at the kettle, then at her, at the house, then back to Sarah again. “You want to eat with us?”
A lump rose in Sarah’s throat. She shouldn’t even be here, let alone go inside. But it was doubtful anyone had seen her come to Jess’s house; the only close neighbor was Mrs. McDougal across the road and Sarah knew she was having supper with the Sullivans tonight.
She glanced around. “Well, all right.”
Jess held the door open for her and Sarah walked inside. He seemed bigger, growing taller and wider each time she saw him. And somehow it made her feel smaller, weaker, until her knees trembled, and made it harder to breathe.
Maggie and Jimmy were both in the kitchen, oblivious to the dirty dishes, the pile of dust under the broom in the corner, the disarray. They sat at the table, drawing with nubby pencils on sheafs of white paper.
“Hi, Miss Sarah.” Maggie smiled broadly. “We’re making pictures, aren’t we, Jimmy.”
The boy spared her a glance and turned back to his drawing.
Sarah stood in the corner, feeling uncomfortable. “I brought stew for supper. Anybody hungry?”
“Uncle Jess said we could make oatmeal cookies for supper. I told Mary Beth Myers we were.”
Sarah looked at Jess. “You giving the children cookies for supper?”
“After supper.” He pushed aside a greasy frying pan and sat the kettle on the stove. “Anything wrong with that?”
“No, of course not.” Sarah took off her cloak and
