The wagon rolled down toward the valley, toward the beautiful house with its smoking chimneys and its buried secrets.
Margaret held Bridget closer and prayed.
The woman who emerged onto the porch was nothing like Margaret expected. She was perhaps 60, silver-haired, dressed in practical wool rather than fine silk. Her face was lined but kind, her eyes sharp with intelligence.
“Nathaniel.” Her voice carried across the yard. “You’re late. I was worried sick.”
“The stage was delayed. Snow on the pass.” Nate jumped down from the wagon. “Aunt Adelaide. This is Mrs. Margaret Sullivan. The bride.”
Adelaide’s eyes swept over Margaret, taking in her threadbare coat, her frostbitten cheeks, her trembling arms wrapped around a feverish child. Then Adelaide looked at the wagon, at the faces peering over the sides.
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8… faces. All of them thin. All of them scared.”
“Nine,” Adelaide said softly. “You brought nine children.”
“Yes, ma’am. Where I go, they go.”
“Of course they do.”
