Anora went to her chores. The mindlessness of taking care of the milk, making herself eat a scrambled egg on a biscuit, and patching her stockings postponed the time when she would be left with nothing to do but mend the fire and think.
The memory flashes were coming to the fore more vividly and more detailed every minute, so many she had a headache. The second she thought she had the events of her past in order, another scene flashed before her mind’s eye, sneaked in, upsetting all her assumptions.
Reliving the past, she couldn’t help but daydream of what might’ve been. The dream, in the time of her innocence, had been a life with her mother and father, living with them, farming, helping her father man the ferry in their new home in Oregon. Maybe she would fall in love, have a family of her own? Maybe she would’ve married that handsome Whit Comstock? Whit’s laughing eyes sprang quickly into her mind’s eye. She could feel herself dancing, being held in his strong arms. She could almost recall the sound of her own laughter.
Eyes closed, the scream in her head yanked her out of her pleasant fantasy and into the dark interior of a covered wagon. Shaking, she relived the pain and horrendous fright. On top of her, his breath sour…putrid, she remembered the feel of his coarse whiskers, and goose flesh blossomed over her arms and legs.
She couldn’t stand the image of it, yet it wouldn’t leave her. Eyes wide open, she searched the dark corners of the cabin. He wasn’t there. But terror had her in its grip. When she tried to get up from her chair, she tripped and stumbled, imagining the shackles that had held her to the wagon, cold and cutting into the flesh around her ankles.
His voice whispered to her in the cold, empty darkness of the early morning. His whiskey voice echoed and bounced off the walls of the cabin. “I don’t want to put these on, but those men out there might carry you off. You’re sick, you know.”
His hot breath, his words and evil whisper, hissed like steamy fire in a wet log. “You walk in your sleep, you might hurt yourself. If you see them men looking at you, hide. It’s wild, and females are rare. The men out here are animals. I’ve shown you what would happen if they get hold of you. I’ll keep you safe until you get better, but you keep out of their way. I’ll protect you, sweet little Norie; it’s lucky for you I’m here. I’m the only family you have. You’d be all alone, just them and you, if I was gone.”
To shut his voice out of her head, she clapped her hands over her ears and tucked into a ball on the floor. Cold and shivering, the voice quieted into a low moan. At last hearing nothing but her own pitiful whimpering, she asked herself why she didn’t fear Hank Reason, or Paxton Hayes. She didn’t fear them, but she didn’t want them coming around. She didn’t want anyone trying to be her friend; she had no room in her head for anyone else.
A vision of her mother folding into the wide embrace of her father’s strong arms drifted through her mind. She remembered watching her father place tender, delicate kisses on her mother’s face and neck. She saw her mother’s smile, her lips red and eager, meeting his kisses with kisses. A lump of unshed tears dammed up in her throat.
She would never have that. He’d taken that from her. Love would never be hers. No man could love her. Her head, full of ugly thoughts, thoughts that burned into her memory, branded her as trash. He was right about that—no one would want her now; she would have to make her own way.
Shortly after breakfast, Mr. Hayes arrived with a load of wood. He returned the following day with extra blankets. He said they were gathering moths at the store. She accepted his wood but refused to allow him to stack it for her. She took the blankets, trading a dozen eggs and a ball of goat cheese for them.
By Sunday the snow had begun to melt. The sun came out; it felt like spring. Shortly after sunrise, Anora let the goats and chickens out of the barn while she cleaned the chicken pen and the goats’ stall and laid fresh hay down for the oxen. By mid-morning, she’d finished her chores and headed down the track. A wagon docked and started up from the ferry. Mr. Hayes, on horseback, rode alongside. Anora recognized Mrs. Reason and her daughter sitting beside Mr. Reason on the wagon.
Mrs. Reason looked more beautiful than Anora remembered. She appeared a fairy queen in a wool cape of sapphire, a matching fur bonnet upon her head of dark brown curls. The little girl, the princess, wore an identical cape and bonnet, both appearing too fine, out of place, in this harsh country.
Anora felt much better now she’d several days of good rest, but she didn’t want to be seen by anyone. She started to turn around to hide in the barn, but Mr. Hayes anticipated her intent and set his big horse at a gallop to cut off her escape.
Laughing at her, he gazed down at her from his saddle. “Anora, a fine day, isn’t it? I see the chickens think so too,” he said, with a big smile stretching his mustache from cheek to cheek. His eyes scanned the yard where the chickens were scratching around in the open dirt, chasing each other, squabbling over their chicken feed.
“I hope so,” she said seriously. “The weather hasn’t been doing much for egg production.”
He dismounted and took the pail of milk from her. “We’re headed up to have a look at Hank and Lydia’s place. Hank wants to start setting out his trees. We brought along a couple dozen pear trees today. Would you care to come along? It would do you good to get away from this place for a while.”
Anora stood dumbfounded. She couldn’t think.
“Mrs. Talbot,” she heard Mrs. Reason call to her from the wagon, “I do hope you can join us? We’ve got a little lunch, enough for all of us.”
Shaking, Anora, teeth chattering, heart pumping fast and furious, shook her head, backing away.
“Hank, what did I say?” she heard Mrs. Reason ask.
Mr. Hayes put down the pail, and adding to her panic, he took her arm to keep her from running.
Out of the corner of her eye, Anora saw Mr. Reason shake his head. He put his hand over his wife’s, and Anora felt sick inside, dirty and sick and went limp.
∙•∙
How could Lydia know of Anora Talbot’s mistrust of kindness, how could anyone understand her sense of shame? But Hank knew some of what she felt, he’d felt it himself long ago.
He’d thought, over the last couple of days, he’d put his feelings for Anora in a better, more proper, perspective, but there he sat, wishing he could hold her, make all the hurt and ugliness go away. He found himself jealous of Paxton, irritated with his clumsiness and lack of understanding, which he knew to be out of line.
He heard Paxton talking to the girl. Calming her down, holding her hand, his head close to hers—speaking gently and quietly.
“Anora…Anora, don’t be afraid. I know you’ve…you’ve probably been punished for leaving here, but Hank and I won’t let anything happen to you. The sun is shining. Look, there’s a robin in the yard. Let’s take the milk up to the porch. Isabell is waiting for you in the wagon.”
She shoved his hand off her arm and took a step back. “I couldn’t, he…he…won’t let me. He’ll come back…and he’ll come after me. He’ll come back, like Lucifer; he’ll kill me, he said he would. He’ll throw me in the river.”
Hank’s throat clutched up, he felt the palms of his hands sweating. He clamped his lips shut, jaw tight.
∙•∙
Mr. Hayes took a deep breath, and looked heavenward. When he brought his head down, he pinned her with his steady gaze. “Listen to me. I can’t tell you he won’t be back. All I can tell you, today, he isn’t here. Today I’m here, Hank and Lydia are here, and we want you to come with us for a day of rest, get away from this place, look at this country from a different view. Will you give yourself today? Anora, take this day just for you?”
Taking a deep, shuddering, calming breath, Anora decided to allow herself to be persuaded. “I need to wash my hands, and I’ll need my bonnet.”
He stepped back to allow her to pass. When she emerged from the cabin, still very shaky, her teeth chattering, she allowed him to help her into the wagon to sit beside Mrs. Reason, and the little girl who sat on her mother’s lap.
“Papa said I should ask if I could call you Nora? Uncle Paston told us your real name is Anora Claire. I think that’s a pretty name,” said the child, as the wagon started to move, rocking and pitching from side to side. The wheels creaked, rolled over muddy ruts and down into deep puddles of muddy water as they went around the bend and up the hill. “I named my new dolly Charity. Mama says we’re going to name my baby sister Ida Jane.”
“Could be your baby brother, you know,” said her papa, looking around Lydia and his daughter to wink at Anora.
The little girl wrinkled up her little nose. “We’ll call him Carter Boyd, Mama says, but I’d radder have a baby sister. Do you have a sister?”
Mrs. Reason started to admonish the child, but Anora didn’t mind at all. Somehow, the little girl’s voice helped to ease her feelings of anxiety at leaving the sanctity of the cabin, and the ferry yard, behind.
“No, no, I don’t have any sisters or brothers. You’re lucky to be getting either one.” Cocking her head to one side, looking the little girl straight in the eye, Anora said, “I suppose brothers can be nice to have, they wouldn’t want to play with your doll or wear your hair ribbons like a little sister might.”
The child tipped her head to the side and held her dolly out in front of her, straightening the dolly’s cap around her stiff little shoulders.
Anora said, “But then a little sister would be more fun at a tea party or playing dress up. And yet, a brother could put the worm on your fishing hook. I don’t know, the more I think about it, either one sounds very special.”
Like the sun coming out, the little girl’s eyes lit up and she bounced on her mother’s lap to ask her mother, “Can we have one of each, Mama?”
Mr. Reason burst out laughing. Mrs. Reason blushed crimson, her lovely lips twitching, brown eyes dancing with unexpressed laughter.
Anora experienced a bit of guilt for bringing about this outburst. It didn’t help that when she looked to her side, she caught the wink Mr. Hayes sent her way. He shook his head at her and said, “That’s my girl.”
Anora folded her hands tightly in her lap, eyes downcast, thoughts racing. This is wrong. I shouldn’t be with these people, nice people, people who laugh and played.
She closed her eyes to ask the God that had forsaken her, Are you watching? Do you know me, where I am at this moment?
He didn’t answer but she knew. No, she couldn’t trust this, this brief interlude; it wouldn’t last, it wasn’t hers; it was borrowed, and repayment would come at a dear price.
∙•∙
Several loads of river rock had been unloaded near the site where the house would stand. Last night, Hank had explained his reason to Lydia for changing the building site; he’d convinced her they’d have a finer view and more light if the house stood on the side of the hill facing southwest.
Lydia had accepted this but overhearing her comment to Anora as she was helped down from the wagon, his conscience told him he wasn’t fooling anyone. “I suppose the change in location will be all right. We’ll see some lovely sunsets from our porch,” she said, shading her eyes with a gloved hand to her forehead, gazing into the distance.
Anora, complexion pale and lips drawn up tight, glanced at him over her shoulder and quickly ducked her head and leaped off the wagon unaided. Hank read the panic in her glance.
Threading her arm through Anora’s, tugging her to fall into step, Lydia started off for the new building site on the slope of the hill.
Isabell, chattering away, pointing to the squirrel scolding them from the crotch of the big oak, trotted at Hank’s side. She’d been rambunctious all week. Lydia hadn’t allowed her more than an hour or so out of doors to play in the snow—so today, Isabell had a lot of pent-up energy to expend.
Every instinct told Hank to follow the women, he didn’t trust where Lydia would lead the conversation. Her big heart had her convinced all she had to do was offer Anora protection. Paxton felt the same. But Hank knew it wasn’t that simple.
∙•∙
“I didn’t realize your cabin would be in view,” Lydia said aloud.
Anora stood staring down on the pitiful, squatty little cabin, her prison. Yes, Mrs. Reason would have to look at that every day—she hated the idea. She’d have to live knowing Mrs. Reason, up here on this big hill, comfortable, warm, and well-loved in her fine, big house, pitied her pathetic existence. Mrs. Reason probably wondered why she stayed. Why she didn’t kill herself rather than endure the shame and torture. Anora couldn’t answer those questions. She didn’t know, but her will to live had sustained her so far. She might find the answer someday, if he didn’t kill her first.
After a lengthy pause, Lydia added, “It’ll be nice and sunny on this side of the hill. The orchard will do well on this side. We’ll have a good view of town too.”
Anora turned and put her back to the view; she couldn’t bear to look at it one more second. Mr. Reason and Mr. Hayes had started laying out the stakes and lines of string that would outline the house.
In her mind’s eye, Anora envisioned a two story, white house, straight sided, with a porch spanning the front—window glass reflecting the sunlight. She would have a flowerbed below the porch with tiger lilies, hollyhocks. Pansies would border the flagstone walk leading to a little bench beneath the oaks where, on summer nights, she could sit and ponder the stars and dream on the moon.
She could almost smell the spicy scent of the tiger lilies. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she scolded herself for dreaming of what would never be and turned to study Lydia Reason’s pretty profile. She wondered what kind of flowers Mrs. Reason would plant beneath her porch.
Shifting her gaze to the meadow and valley below, Anora puzzled over why she’d thought of tiger lilies. Did she remember them from her childhood? Yes, she thought there were lots of flowers where they’d lived in Iowa.
Her tormentor wouldn’t let her have flowers. He said she could if she wanted to eat them. He wasn’t going to have anything growing or living that wasn’t useful. Her small garden yielded carrots, beans, potatoes, beets, cabbage, and spinach, but not one useless flower would Anora ever see.
“Do you think a garden would do well here?” Lydia asked, bringing Anora out of her reverie.
Anora looked around, her eyes drawn to Mr. Reason’s back, his strong arms hammering on a wooden stake. She pulled her gaze away. He moved on down the hill, measuring out where to place his trees.
Considering Lydia’s question, Anora surveyed the area and said, “It’s nice, probably morning sun, and no problem with drainage. Where are you going to put the well? It would be nice to have it close to the garden.”
“Hmm, I don’t know, I haven’t asked Hank. How soon do you think we could plant a garden? I’m not familiar with the growing season here in the Willamette Valley.”
“Willamette Valley? That’s where we are?” Anora, until this moment, hadn’t realized her exact location. She remembered arriving in Oregon, but where he’d taken her after that, she wasn’t certain. She knew Takenah lay across the river. But where Takenah was, in what part of the country, what river—she had no idea.
Lydia took both her wrists to steady her. “I’m sorry. Yes, this is the Willamette Valley, Anora. You didn’t know? Oh, my dear, you look ready to faint. Food, you need something to eat. Hank and Paxton are coming up the hill, and we can have lunch, and I’ll have Hank build a fire so we can heat water for tea. A strong cup of tea—that will brace you.”
With Lydia’s arm around her waist, they started back to the wagon. Squealing, Isabell, wielding a large snowball, jumped out from under the deep cover of thick oak and fir. Anora spied the pile of snow that lay hidden in the shade under the fern and briars.
Lydia shouted at her daughter, but too late; the snowball found Mr. Hayes’s head, knocking his hat off. He responded with a jump and a war-hoop, taking out after the assassin in hot, mean pursuit, volleying threats, closing the gap in no time.
Mrs. Reason shook her head. “I should stop her, but Paxton will encourage her. It would be futile to put a halt to this battle. I think we’ll be safe, and well out of range, if we can make it to the safety of the wagon. But I don’t promise. Paxton loves to play, and he doesn’t allow spectators. Everyone is expected to participate and take sides.”
Coming within shouting distance, Mr. Reason said, “I don’t know which one is more incorrigible. I think this time Miss Isabell may have bitten off more than she can chew.”
Standing under the oaks, with a good view of the fun, Mr. Reason stood with his big arms folded across his broad chest, a smile on his strong face, watching the battle progress. Behind Anora, Mrs. Reason coaxed the fire she was tending to heat the water.
Anora had taken up a position a couple of yards away, in the open, to observe. Listening to the squeals of laughter from the little girl being unmercifully chased, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as her uncle grunted and growled, the beast who pursued her around and around the thicket.
An unexpected tear trickled down her check, warm and salty, finding the crease between her lips. Oh, to be a child again. To start over.
Then, frapp, a slushy snowball caught her on the shoulder. She heard a woman’s laugh, her voice, her laughter. Without thinking, she dashed off to the nearest pile of snow. Mr. Hayes, who had poked his head around a fir to see where Isabell’s snow missile had landed, proved an easy target for Anora. She took aim, fired without considering the consequences.
“This way, Anora, run. Run.” Isabell called to her from inside the thicket. “We can hold him off in here.”
Anora had to clear several yards of open territory before she could reach the safety of the ticket. She doubted she could gain that much ground without taking some hits. On the run, she formed two loosely packed snowballs and, with one in each hand, she made a dash for it.
A snowball hit her on the hip and another got her on her backside as she passed his hiding post. She turned a split second before disappearing behind a small stand of young firs and fired her ammunition. She didn’t wait to see where they fell, but darted behind the brush, winded, giddy, giggling to herself, hysterical, tears coming down her cheeks.
“You got him. You got him good. One on the nose and the other one went in his ear.” Screaming and jumping up and down with triumph, Isabell’s dark curls bounced. Her cheeks bright pink, she danced with victory.
Then it began to rain snowballs. Mr. Hayes had come out into the open, lobbing snowball after snowball into the brush.
“Two against one, is it? Ha. I’ve got you sewed up now. Say uncle and come out with your hands up.”
Anora, her hands up over her head, trying to protect herself from the snow, leaves, twigs, and pine needles, looked down to Isabell, who had huddled up against her skirts. “Shall we surrender to fight another day?”
Isabell grumbled, then said, “Oh, I s’pose, I’m hungry anyway.” In defeat, Isabell crawled out of the thicket on her hands and knees. Anora followed, ducking and disentangling herself from the branches and briars. She stepped out into the open, her blue bonnet dangling by one ribbon down her back, hair loose about her face and neck, no doubt decorated with twigs and pine needles. Chips of snowball covered her coat. Shivering, her hands freezing, she blew on her fingers to bring them back to life. Her head down, stumbling out of the tangle of the thicket, she ran into Mr. Hayes.
“Hey, you don’t have any gloves,” he said, the arrogant smile of triumph on his face giving way to concern. “Here, take mine for a while.”
“No. No, I’ll be all right,” she assured him, while at the same time he took off his fur-lined gloves and then proceeded to put them on her hands.
“I won’t take no for an answer.”
The gloves felt heavenly. They were far too big, but they were warm and dry, and her fingers tingled as blood began to circulate more freely. He brushed the pine needles from the collar of her coat in a proprietary way that made her squirm with anxiety. When his fingers brushed her cheek, she flinched and backed away. Either he didn’t notice or he pretended not to notice; either way, Anora stiffened, turned to stone.
“Come on, let’s see what Lydia has in the hamper. I’ve worked up an appetite. I bet you have too. You know you have a very good arm there and a fine aim. You hit me on the run. I’m impressed,” he said, a wide, condescending grin on his face, his eyes dancing with mischief.
Looking away from that mischievous grin, Anora mumbled aloud to no one in particular, “I shouldn’t be here.”
“I think this is exactly where you should be,” she heard him say, steadying her with his hand beneath her elbow, guiding her back to the wagon.
Wooden and stiff, to disengage his gentle grasp, she made a pretense of brushing her hair from her face. He allowed her to go, but she could see by his tight jaw and pursed lips he wasn’t pleased. She rushed forward and to the side, putting him at arms-length, anticipating an explosion of outrage.
∙•∙
The evening before, Hank had sat silent and tight-jawed, listening to Paxton expound on what he’d do with the Talbot property. According to Paxton, Anora Talbot was sitting on a pretty spot if Talbot didn’t return. With Talbot out of the way, Paxton believed, with his guidance, he could make her a powerful woman in her own right. He also hinted that if someday a young lady, wholesome and sweetly innocent, should come along, he’d have to marry; but until that time, he and Anora could build and control their destinies together.
The subject soured Hank’s stomach. Although Paxton’s daydream benefited the town as well as Anora, Paxton would be using her for his own gain. It would do nothing to elevate her standing in the good-books of the town’s people. Far from it, she’d be labeled not only a crazy whore, but a ruthless, crazy whore. Hank hated every aspect of the idea but didn’t see he had any room to object.
He tried his best to explain Anora’s fragile existence, her bruised and fractured mind. But Paxton assured him he could bring her around. And maybe Paxton was right; after all, Hank had seen her laughing today. Paxton had brought about that laughter. The very idea of it set his back teeth to grinding. He knew once Paxton set his mind to a thing, it usually ended up a done deal. He’d have to trust Paxton wouldn’t hurt her. All Hank could do was hope Paxton held more than a smidgen of genuine regard for the girl. He had other worries at the moment. He had a pregnant wife to think of. He should be giving her his attention, not Anora and certainly not Paxton.
∙•∙
Anora found her attention drawn to Hank and Lydia; they were having a spat. She blinked in surprise, fearful for Lydia. No one argued with a man, no one. Isabell wasn’t helping, tugging on her mother’s coat, nagging, whining for a cup of tea.
“You should get off your feet,” Hank said, his voice sharp and commanding. “I saw you going up and down those stairs this morning. You promised me you’d find a place to sit down, not wander all around the woods wearing yourself out.
He caught his daughter by the collar, pulled her back and gave her a little shake. “Isabell, leave your mama alone. We’ll eat soon.”
Anora expected him to backhand her; instead, he picked the child up and tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. The child kicked and squealed. He gave her a light swat on her behind and then set her down on her feet.
“You look here, Hank Reason,” Lydia said while pushing a cup of steaming tea into her daughter’s outstretched hands, spilling some of the hot liquid on her own fingers, which did not improve Lydia’s disposition one iota. “I’ll sit down when I please, and besides, it’s cold here in the shade. I had to keep moving to stay warm.”
He took the kettle from her. “Well, go sit out there in the sun. There’s a fallen tree out beyond the woods there. We don’t have to eat here by the wagon.”
“All right. My back does hurt a little. I’m sorry, I know I’m snapping, but you pulled the wagon up here, not me. I don’t see a fire out there in the sun. I had to build one myself.
“Isabell, stop that,” Lydia hissed, disengaging her daughter’s hand from her coattail. “What is it now? You have your tea.”
Mr. Reason yammered on in his own defense. “I was busy, if you didn’t notice. All you had to say is you wanted a fire and I would’ve built it.”
Mrs. Reason shrugged. “Well, it’s too late now.”
Mr. Reason shut his eyes, took a deep breath. After opening his eyes, he set the kettle down to the side of her fire. Taking his wife by the shoulders, he put his forehead to hers and said, “Lydy, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
Anora couldn’t believe her ears. Ruben would’ve cuffed her upside the head several times by now. As a matter of fact, the conversation wouldn’t have gotten past the first two words. Anora hated to think what Isabell’s fate would’ve been.
“Come on, Paxton, let’s move this fire closer to that old fallen tree. I’ll get the food. Isabell, you get the lap robe for your mama.”
Volunteering, still puzzled by the progression of the argument and the end result, Anora said, “I’ll bring the pot of water.” She caught Mr. Hayes’s eye. She’d felt his gaze on her, watching her watch his sister and Hank.
Anora sat next to Lydia on the fallen oak tree. Lydia offered to share the wool lap robe. She sat quietly, watching the two men form a fire pit and put the covered pot of water over the flames to heat.
“Aren’t you afraid of Mr. Reason? “Anora asked, keeping her voice cautiously low, not wanting the men to overhear.
Lydia leaned a little closer, her head down, looking at Anora through her long, dark lashes. “What? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“You aren’t afraid of Mr. Reason, are you?” Anora said, in a loud whisper, just between the two of them.
“Afraid of…of Hank? No. I’ve…” Lydia stopped, blinked, and shook her head. “I’ve never been given cause. He barks, and I snipe, lately more than I care to. When I get hungry, I get tired, and then I get cranky.”
“Cranky, is it? Hank said, and laughed. “You, my dear, turn into a mad little hornet. But I know how to remove your stinger,” he said, coming up to her, bending down and planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek.
“Papa was going to spank me once,” Isabell bluntly confessed, “but he changed his mind. Instead I had to scrub all the kitchen cupboards inside and out ‘cause I painted ’em all shiny with Mama’s lard. Next time, I’m gonna take the spanking.”
Mr. Reason ruffled his daughter’s hair and gave her a peck on the nose.
Anora wished she could remember more of her childhood. She didn’t think she’d ever been spanked, not by her gentle father. The memories of her father, the ones that had surfaced so far, were of a remote, but loving, husband and father.
Then, in her head, she heard crying and shouting. Mr. Hayes squatted down in front of her. Her breath caught in her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut and hunched her shoulders. Another memory surfaced.
A warm pair of strong hands folded over her own. The voices of her mother and father, her mother’s sobs and protests, her father’s shouts and arguments, filled her head.
When Mr. Hayes gently shook her hands, she opened her eyes. “Anora, what is it? Anora, please…” he asked. She shook her head, unable to breathe, afraid she’d lose this small scrap of her past if she blinked.
She heard Mr. Reason say, “I’ll get her some tea.”
Her voice sounded far away and strange in her own ears; embarrassed, she attempted to explain, “Mama…Mama cried. She didn’t want to go to Oregon. Papa…wanted to go. They had a big fight over that. They never fought about anything. It frightened me. They both cried, and I cried. In the end, Mama said she’d go to hell and back if he asked her. He assured her she didn’t have to go that far, just to Oregon.”
Mr. Hayes laughed. Lydia took her hand. Anora squeezed her eyes shut and held on tight.
When she opened her eyes, she found herself looking directly into the warm, brown depths of Hank Reason’s eyes. She took a shuddering breath to steady herself and nodded, reassuring him she had herself in hand now. “Here you go, Anora, Lydia,” he said, handing off their mugs of tea.
Quickly, he shifted his attention to his daughter. “Isabell, you be careful you don’t spill your tea all over your mama.” He passed Mr. Hayes a cup of tea. “Let’s dig into this hamper. I’ve worked up an appetite.”