Zach hurried out, his expression tight. Despite her assurance the boys would be fine with her, she knew he found it difficult to leave them for even a few hours.

She faced the pair. They stood at the table behind long stalks of rhubarb. “Well, I think we better get to work if we’re to get a pie made for dinner; I’ll be needing some help.” She looked around the room. “I wonder where I could find a couple pairs of hands to help me?”

Harry nodded, his expression serious. “We could help you.”

She clasped her hands in delight. “The very thing I need. Harry, you pump some water into that basin, and we’ll wash the rhubarb first.”

He sprang to do as she said, and she set things up in a row, the basin of water, first. “Harry, you wash the stalks and hand them to Donald.” She gave Donald a clean tea towel. “Donald, you dry them and hand them to me.” For herself, she set out a cutting board and found a butcher knife. “Then I’ll cut them into pieces ready for a pie.”

Harry followed her orders. Donald hesitated when Harry handed him a wet stalk until Harry said, “Come on, Donald, there’s work to do.” The younger boy pulled his fingers from his mouth and dried the stalk.

Irene hid a smile. Such a sober pair. So dependent on each other. “I always like to sing when I work. Don’t you?”

Harry’s attention on his task, he asked, “Sing what?”

She chopped the rhubarb as she talked. “Anything. We can even make up songs.”

Both children stopped working to look at her.

She nodded, her expression serious. “Like this one: Rhubarb, stewbarb. I like rhubarb. It’s so tasty. Now let’s be hasty and make a rhubarb pie.” She sang it in a rolling tune.

Harry chuckled. “Can you make up one about us?”

She thought a moment. “Harry and Donald, oh yeah. Washing and drying, oh yeah. They’re a good pair, with nothing they compare. Hurray for Harry and Donald.”

Harry grinned.

Donald shot a glance at his older brother then ducked his head, but not before Irene caught a flash in his dark eyes.

“I can do one for each of you, if you like.”

“Okay.”

She purposely started with Harry. “There was a young boy named Harry. His looks were as fine as a cherry. He helped out his pa, and oft milked the cow, his work was so fine, oh so very. This young man, I know, more handsome will grow. He makes his dear dad oh so merry.”

Harry’s eyes grew wide and a smile spread across his face. “Sing it again.”

She did, loudly, with great gusto until Harry laughed.

She laughed, too, then turned to Donald. “Shall I make up a song about you, Donald?”

He nodded, his expression sober.

“This will have to be a very special song for a special boy.” She tipped her head, watching him as she thought about a song. His gaze, dark and intent, never left her face. He was measuring her, assessing her, perhaps wondering if he would allow her to enter into his world. A sobering thought. She prayed she would be found worthy.

“Here goes.” She began to sing. “Donald is a little boy, who fills our hearts with joy. His eyes are dark, his hair is, too, I’m glad it’s not blue. This little boy is special, see, a little bird told me. His daddy loves him with all his heart, that is quite plain to see.”

Donald’s gaze never wavered. Irene met it steadily knowing to do otherwise would be to fail him. She finished the song.

Harry chuckled. “Donald, you’d look funny with blue hair.”

Irene caught a glimpse of approval in Donald’s eyes before he ducked away.

She concentrated on cutting the rhubarb, giving herself a chance to control the way her nose tickled with unshed tears. She couldn’t remember being so emotional before.

“I’m done,” Harry announced.

“Good job. We’ll clean up here, then start pies.”

“Can we help?”

“I was counting on it. You dump the water out, then find me a big mixing bowl. Donald, do you think you can find the pie plates?”

The boys scrambled to do her bidding while she wiped the table. When they brought back the requested items, she pressed her finger to her chin. “Either of you know how to make pie crust?”

Two heads wagged back and forth.

“Then we shall begin with a baking lesson. First, we need flour. Here’s a cup, Harry. You measure out four cups into this bowl.” He carefully did so. “Now we need some lard. Donald, do you know where I could find the lard?”

The little boy stared at her for a moment, his fingers in his mouth.

“Do you know what lard is?”

He nodded.

“I was sure you would. You don’t miss much, do you?”

He shook his head.

“Do you know where it is?” When Harry opened his mouth to answer for his little brother, she signaled him to let Donald do it. Harry gave her a quick nod and a little smile that said he understood.

Donald nodded.

“Fine. Will you show me?”

He led the way into the pantry and pointed at a high shelf.

“Hmm. I guess someone didn’t know you couldn’t reach it up there. I think I’ll have to help.” She lifted him up so he could reach it, surprised at how little he weighed. She set him down again and took the tin from him, even though she wanted nothing more than to hug this child and assure him he would never be hurt again. “Good job. Now I’ll measure the right amount into the flour. Then I need someone to chop it.” She looked around the kitchen pretending to look for someone.

“I can help,” Harry said.

She dropped her gaze to him. “Why, I do believe you’re exactly what I need.” She showed Harry how to plunge the pastry blender into the flour, cutting through the lard. He set to the task with a seriousness that touched her heart.

She touched Donald’s chin. “And what about this young man? Do you suppose he’d help, too?”

“You want to do this, Donald?” Harry asked, moving over so Donald could climb up beside him. He relinquished the tool to his younger brother, and the pair bent over the bowl.

Irene stood back and watched, her chest so incredibly tight she wondered if she was getting a cold. She let them chop a bit more. “Now I’ll add some water and get it ready to roll. Anyone know where the rolling pin is?”

Two boys scrambled from the chair and raced toward the cupboard. Harry let Donald carry it to her.

“Thank you. I don’t know how I’d manage without you two. Now comes the fun part.” She handed a wad of dough to each boy. “You get to make something, too.”

Harry held the dough. “What can I make?”

“Anything you like. You could roll out snowmen shapes. Or you could make a little pie and fill it with jam. Or you could make a braid to bake. Whatever you like.”

He nodded, considering. “I’ll make a snowman.”

“Good choice.”

Harry turned to Donald. “You want to make one, too?”

Donald nodded and climbed to a chair beside Harry.

Irene smiled as she fit the bottom crust into the pan. “You know what we forgot to do?”

Two pairs of eyes looked at her.

“We forgot to eat rhubarb raw.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “It’s sour.”

Irene let her jaw drop, shocked. “You mean you’ve never learned how to eat raw rhubarb? Well, let me show you.”

She poured a little sugar in a cup, picked a piece of the fruit, and dipped it into the sugar. She popped the piece in her mouth and bit down, the sharp and sour making her mouth pucker. Then sweet prevailed. “Umm, good.” She pushed the sugar toward the boys. “You try it.”

His expression doubtful, Harry dipped a piece into the sugar and popped it into his mouth.

Irene laughed. “You have to bite.”

Grimacing, Harry bit down, his first expression startled. He wrinkled his face and chewed furiously. She knew the moment his taste buds acknowledged the sweet.

“Good, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Can I have some more?”

“As much as you want. How about you, Donald?”

He shook his head, his gaze on Harry.

“Come on, Donald. You got to try some.” Harry prepared a piece for him. Obediently, Donald opened his mouth, and Harry popped it in. “Now you got to chew real slow.”

Donald did so, his expression shocked.

Harry laughed. “It’s only sour for a minute. Then it’s real good.”

Donald finished the piece but could not be persuaded to try another.

The boys returned to patting their dough flat while Irene measured sugar and flour over the fruit, then fit the top crust on.

The pies were in the oven, filling the room with their aroma when the door opened.

Irene glanced up. Zach’s face registered shock.

Irene looked about. She had been helping the boys put raisin eyes and noses on their snowmen. Bits of dough lay scattered over the table. A dusting of flour covered the boys’ shirts, the table, and even the floor.

“Boys, you’re making a mess.” His voice deepened with. . .

She didn’t know him well enough to understand whether his displeasure was meant for her for allowing such a mess, or the boys for making it.

She straightened, wiping her hands on a cloth. “It’s my fault. I’ve been showing them how to make pies.”

“Look,” Harry said. “We’ve made snowmen. All we have to do is sprinkle them with sugar and bake them.” He waited for his father’s reaction.

Zach hesitated, then he moved to look over the boys’ shoulders. “Dough men,” he muttered.

“That’s right.” Harry nodded vigorously. “They’re really dough men, not snowmen. Aren’t they nice?”

“Almost good enough to eat.”

Irene laughed. “Let’s bake them first.”

She helped the boys slip them onto a cookie sheet, then slid it into the oven. “I didn’t know when to expect you.”

He shifted from foot to foot, his troubled glance going from the boys then back to Irene.

She drew in a deep breath, uncertain what troubled him.

“I’ll have dinner ready soon.” She’d already thought of a few things she could throw together in a hurry. Fried potatoes from last night, a few scrambled eggs—it wouldn’t take long.

“I can wait.” He ran a finger along the top of the chair and wiped it on his pants, leaving a white smudge. “I’m sorry the boys made such a mess. I’m sure they didn’t mean to.”

She laughed. “Boys and kitchens clean up quickly. We were having too much fun to worry about a little flour, weren’t we, boys?”

Two little heads bopped up and down. “We learned all about making pies, and she sang us songs—just for us.” Harry sounded pleased.

“She did, did she?” His voice carried a note of surprise.

“Sing them for him,” Harry begged.

“Oh, I don’t know if I can remember them.”

“Mine went. . .” And Harry repeated the little song, his voice thin and wobbly. Finished, he fixed his father with a demanding look. “Is that true? Do I make you merry?”

Zach ruffled his hair. “Yes, you do.”

“What’s merry?”

Irene laughed, meeting Zach’s eyes above Harry’s head. He grinned crookedly. “It means to be happy and gay.”

“That’s what I thought. Then I guess it can’t be true. You never laugh and play with us anymore.”

Zach’s expression hardened, and he turned away, taking his time about hanging up his jacket. Finally, he returned to Harry’s side. “It won’t always be so bad.” His dark eyes made Irene want to help him. Touch him.

“That’s right,” she said. “It will soon be buttons and bows. You wait and see.”

Father and son both relaxed at her assurances. Donald let his fingers lay slack in his mouth.

Zach’s eyes flashed his thanks. “How long ’til dinner?”

Irene pulled her thoughts together. “Give me half an hour to clean up and fix something.” As an afterthought, she added, “You’re welcome to sit and have coffee while I work.”

“Thanks.” He hesitated. “Maybe I will.”

She filled the coffeepot with fresh water and ground some more coffee. As she waited for it to boil, she swiped the table clean and ran the broom over the floor.

Zach sent the boys to wash as she sliced potatoes into the frying pan, then checked the oven. “Looks like the dough men are cooked.”

The boys hurried to see their creation.

“Careful, it’s hot yet.” She slid them onto a clean cloth. “We’ll let them cool first. That will give us time to eat.” She pulled dishes from the cupboard. “Harry, you put on the plates and cups. Donald, you put cutlery at every place.”

While the boys set the table, she cracked eggs into the pan. The pies were done, and she set them to cool and dished up the food.

“I’ll say the blessing,” Zach murmured.

The boys quickly folded their hands and bowed their heads.

“Lord, bless this food. Bless our home with love and peace. Amen.”

Tears stung behind Irene’s nose. She was certain he didn’t know her name meant peace—bringer of peace, but his words made her feel blessed. She took a deep breath and passed the food, helping Donald serve himself an egg.

“How did your morning go?” She handed the plate to Zach.

“Good. I only found a couple places in the fence I had to repair. The grass is coming good.”

“You’ll have to pardon my ignorance when you talk about the farm. I’ve never lived on a farm.”

“Where did you live?” Harry asked.

“You know I’m from England?”

He nodded.

“That’s why I sound funny to you.”

“You don’t sound funny. You sound nice.”

Her heart swelled. “Why, thank you, Harry. That’s very sweet.”

“I lived with my younger sister and father in a small house in a small town outside London,” Irene said. “I loved it when Father took us to London to the shops, and we got to ride the tube. That’s the underground rail,” she explained for Harry’s sake. “My father was an accountant in a small firm.”

“Where was your mother?” Harry asked the question, but two little boys waited for the answer.

She knew her answer must be precise in order to let these boys know she understood. “I was eight years old when my baby sister was born. My mother never got strong again. I was ten when she passed away.”

The air swelled with the heaviness of her words. She waited, not knowing what each was thinking, but knowing they pushed her words up alongside their own experience to see how it fit.

“Was it your baby sister’s fault?” Harry whispered.

“Oh no. My mother loved her very much and wanted to get better, but her body was too weak. Oh no. I can’t imagine not having my sister.”

“What’s her name?” The conversation continued between Harry and Irene, but she sensed Donald’s and Zach’s keen interest.

“Grace.”

“What happened to her?”

“She grew up into a beautiful young girl with golden curls and a sweet smile, and she married your daddy’s cousin, Billy Marshall. They live in Toronto. And they are very happy.”

Harry sighed. “That’s good.” He hesitated. “Everybody should be happy.”

She felt Zach’s surprised start at his son’s words, but she kept her attention on Harry, knowing he sought answers for himself. Besides, she was afraid of her own emotions if she looked at Zach. This family—her family, she realized with a jolt of possessiveness—pulled at her heart like it was a ball of yarn to which someone had suddenly given life to some of the strands.

“Yes,” she said when she was sure she could speak without her voice cracking. “Everyone should be very happy though maybe not all the time. And sometimes we have to work at it.”

“How do you do that?” Harry asked.

“Sometimes we have to really try to find the good things in life rather than letting the bad things swallow us up. Does that make sense?”

He thought about it. “I guess it’s a little like eating rhubarb.”

She laughed. “It certainly is.” She felt Zach’s questioning gaze on her and turned to explain. “We ate rhubarb dipped in sugar. The only way to enjoy it is to bite down and let the sour juice mix with the sugar. Then you get a sharp sweetness.” She turned back to Harry. “That’s a real good way to see it.”

The boy’s expression remained thoughtful.

Irene jumped up. “Speaking of rhubarb, let’s have some of that pie. Do you boys want your dough men, or pie, or both?”

Harry and Donald looked at each other. Then Harry nodded. “We’ll have pie now, please, and our dough men later.”

Irene chuckled. “Good idea.”

Halfway through his piece of pie, Harry turned to Irene again. “Do you still miss her?”

“My mother? Yes, I miss her. I probably always shall. But it doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

He nodded and turned back to his pie. “Good pie,” he murmured.

“That’s because of all the help I had.”

“It is good,” Zach added. “Thank you.”

The boys finished and were excused from the table while Irene and Zach lingered over tea. He rolled his cup back and forth in his hand, his expression thoughtful.

She waited, letting him find his way of saying what was on his mind.

After a few minutes, he shoved his cup away and sighed. “Harry has never said anything about his mother’s death. I wasn’t here when she. . .” He swallowed. “They sent me word at camp, but by the time I got here. . .” He studied his hands. “Thank you.”

“For what?” She was mystified at to his meaning.

“For answering his questions.”

“I’m glad if I’ve helped him in some small way.”

He rubbed his thumbnail up and down a dark spot on his pant leg. “I don’t expect you to do beyond for them.”

She stared at the top of his head. Beyond! What did the man mean? “Beyond what?”

He straightened then, fixing her with a hard look. “Our agreement was someone to run the house and care for the boys. I’m not expecting you to do beyond that.”

Her mouth dropped open. She clamped it shut, knowing she should clamp back the words rushing to her mind, but they burst forth in a torrent. “Are you saying you expect me to cook and clean and tend your boys without enjoying their company? Without answering their questions? Without caring about how they feel? You once said I was crazy, but I’m not the one who is crazy if you think I can live in this house without caring for the people in it, if you think I can function without having feelings.” She pushed to her feet. “I’m sorry. No matter what you think our agreement is, I have no intention of pretending I don’t have feelings.”

She turned her back, busying herself with the dirty dishes, wishing he would go. She didn’t often lose her temper and didn’t like it when she did.

His chair pushed back, and she heard him stand. But he didn’t leave.

She determinedly kept her back to him.

He sighed loudly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

She waited.

“I just don’t want them hurt again.”

Drying her hands on a towel, she turned to face him. “Having someone care for them, allowing them to care for me—well, it carries a risk. Caring always does. But to refuse to take that risk—why, to shut love out is the worst hurt of all. ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’ ”

His dark expression told her he wasn’t convinced. Without another word, he lifted his coat from the hook and went outside.

She stared after him. She should have bitten her tongue. What right did she have to say anything about loving and losing? She’d never lost a spouse. She knew nothing about how he felt. Yet, as she watched him cross the yard toward the barn, she knew healing would not come until Zach allowed himself to love again. She turned away and plunged her hands into the dishwater. Don’t be a foolish old maid, she scolded herself. Love was not part of the bargain.

But her inner longings would not be quieted despite her mental reminder that Zach was now her husband in a union that was a matter of convenience. She wanted more.

The boys played quietly in the other room while Irene finished the dishes. She reminded herself of her advice to Harry that one sometimes had to work at being happy. And content, she added now. She began to hum as she worked.

The door opened, and Zach stood in the doorway. “Where are the boys?”

“Playing in the other room.” She wondered if there was something wrong.

“I need Harry to help me fix the plow.” He raised his voice. “Harry.”

The boys trotted into the room.

“I need you to help me, Harry.” He knelt before Donald. “You’re needed here to help.”

Irene watched the play of emotions across the younger boy’s eyes and knew he didn’t believe he was being left behind because he was needed. She waited until Zach left. Harry gave Donald a sad look over his shoulder before he followed his father. She faced Donald. “You want to work or play?”

His eager nod answered her.

“Me, too. Why don’t you come and see what I brought with me?”

She led the way into the bedroom and knelt before the trunk, waiting for Donald to come to her side. Slowly, she lifted back the lid. On top lay an assortment of books and photo albums. She took a worn book. “This has always been one of my favorite books. It’s full of lovely pictures and rhymes.” His dark eyes gleamed. “Let’s take it into the other room, and I’ll read it to you.”

Solemnly, he marched to the sofa and climbed up.

Irene sat beside him, careful not to push close enough to threaten him. She opened the book. “See the big fat king?”

Donald’s dark head bent over the pages. One finger touched the picture.

“It’s Old King Cole.” She recited the rhyme, Donald drawing closer, leaning his elbow on her knee as he studied the picture. She read both pages. “Shall we see what’s next?”

He shifted enough to allow her to turn the page then again bent over her knee.

She read on and on, amazed at how this little boy settled against her leg. She dropped her hand to his shoulder. He did not pull away. Next time he shifted for her to turn the page, she drew him into the hollow of her arm. Although he did not snuggle close, neither did he stiffen or pull away.

His little body warmed her, his boy-smell of playing in the hay satisfied her senses. She smiled down at the dark head, her heart drinking in the pleasure of his acceptance.

She turned a page. “Puss in Boots,” she murmured.

A sound shuddered through Donald, a sound that stayed inside him. She felt it ripple along his thin ribs and felt certain he had chuckled silently.

“He’s a funny kitty, isn’t he, with his boots and feathered hat? Can you imagine your kitty acting so silly?”

He touched the picture.

She waited, not reading the story, wondering if he would find a way to indicate whether or not he wanted her to.

He tipped his head toward her, his dark eyes dancing as he tapped the page with his forefinger.

“You want to hear the story about Puss in Boots?”

He nodded once, quite decisively, turned his gaze back to the page, and waited expectantly for her to read.

Irene took a deep breath to ease the tightness in her throat.

They came to the end of the book. She closed it.

Donald lifted the cover, demanding more.

“You like my book, do you? Well, I don’t blame you. It’s always been my favorite, too.” Somehow, she felt compelled to talk to this boy, to deepen their connection. He relaxed against her. “I remember my own mommy reading these to me. I never wanted her to stop. Sometimes we sat on the sofa just like this. Sometimes I crawled into bed with her and put my head on her pillow. But you know the very best time of all was when my mama spread a blanket under the trees in our garden and we sat outside with the birds and bees singing as she read.”

Donald sprang from her arms and scurried across the room, disappearing into the hall.

“Donald?” She hurried after him and met him coming from his bedroom, a less than clean blanket trailing behind.

Irene chuckled. “Let’s do it.” She scooped up the blanket. “Lead the way.”

Donald marched out the door and headed directly for a grove of trees overlooking the deep valley. The view was intense—giant, snowcapped peaks and the sloping green valley. She spread the blanket. Donald plopped down, looking up at her with a look that plainly asked, Why so slow?

She laughed. “Let me look around first. This is such pretty country.” She breathed in the murky scent of the farm, the green smell of new leaves on the poplars. She tasted the metallic breeze from off the mountains. She saw the plow, but no sign of Zach or Harry. The barn door stood ajar. They must have gone there.

“I’m ready.” She settled beside him. He scooted close, practically curling into her lap. Again she read the book from cover to cover, taking her time, savoring each sensation; memories of her own mother, sweet times of reading to Grace, and now the budding tenderness of this little boy.

The ringing sound of metal against metal jerked her attention toward the plow. Zach and Harry were bent over it, their heads almost touching. Zach’s big hands guided the boy’s as he concentrated on his task, frowning in concentration.

Zach’s deep tones reached Irene. As she listened and watched, her chest tightened. Zach’s patience and gentleness with the boys sparked an answering tenderness in her heart. What would it be like to receive the same sort of gentle love? She blinked hard. This was not an arrangement that left room for the usual sort of feelings between a man and his wife. She breathed deeply, promising herself she would be content with small mercies, like this little boy leaning on her knee.

Zach straightened. He lifted his head and saw her sitting under the trees. His eyes widened when he saw Donald at her knee. He stared as if seeing her for the first time.

Distance disappeared as they studied each other. The boys, the mountains—everything disappeared, and there was nothing but Zach and Irene assessing each other, measuring, finding surprises and assessing again.

Her heart pounded in her ears with the insistence of a stubborn knocking at the door. She couldn’t remember how to breathe. Inside, she drew toward him, assuring, pleading—for what she didn’t know. She only knew she longed for something she didn’t understand.