Montana Legend

At the sound of a knock at the door Sarah looked up from her kneading. There, on the other side of the pink mesh screen door, stood little Lucy Gatlin.

Her freckled face was shaded by her sunbonnet and sparkled with a grin as she pressed against the mesh. “Howdy, Sarah. Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m making bread. What are you up to?”

“Nothin’.” Lucy pulled open the screen door and leaned one reed-thin shoulder on the frame. “That looks sticky.”

“That’s why I use flour.” Sarah dug the heel of her hand into the dough ball. What was that look on Lucy’s face? Her eyes were pinched, her mouth pursed tight. “I wager your father buys bread in town.”

“Yep.” Lucy took one step forward, watching intently. “That pie you made was real good. We had big slices after supper last night.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

Lucy stalked closer. “I bet your bread is real good.”

“I can bring over a loaf when it’s done cooling.”

“Could you?” Lucy’s dark eyes sparkled like Gage’s, full of something extraordinary.

Sarah couldn’t help being charmed. “You can help yourself to a roll if you’d like.” She nodded toward the wire racks on the other side of the kitchen.

“Gee, thanks!”

Sarah pinched the ends of the rolled dough and popped it into a waiting pan. The last one. The back of her neck ached as she straightened. She’d been bending over the breadboard since dawn, but at least the hardest work of the day was over.

Sarah opened the oven door, ignored the blast of heat and slipped her hand inside to test the temperature. “Do you want a glass of milk to go with that?”

“Nope. Can Ella come play?”

“So that’s why you came to raid my kitchen.” Sarah slipped the half dozen-bread pans into the oven and eased the door shut. “Ella’s in her room—”

Footsteps knelled in the front room as Ella burst into sight. “Can I, Ma? Can I please?”

Breathless, Ella clasped her hands together and pleaded. It had been a long time since there had been anyone Ella’s age to play with.

“Take your sweater.” Sarah tried to keep a firm look so there would be no argument. “And you girls don’t go far.”

“We won’t!”

The screen door slammed shut. Laughing to herself, Sarah watched the girls dash into the yard. Ella tugged on her sweater while Lucy untied Scout from the porch post. The bell-like cheer of their voices rang through the kitchen. What luck that a girl Ella’s age had moved in next door.

“Going to take Mr. Gatlin a loaf of your bread, are you?” Cousin Lark, a young girl of sixteen, swept into the kitchen. “I don’t know, Sarah. It sounds like a wasted effort to me.”

“A kind act is never wasted.” Knowing full well what Lark meant, Sarah swept the caked flour and bits of dough into the garbage bucket. “Would you like to take some fresh rolls to your meeting in town?”

“As if I would bring something homemade.” Lark wrinkled her dainty nose as she lifted her best cloak from the peg at the door. “Although I’m sure your baking leaves a certain impression with a man like Mr. Gatlin.”

Sarah had grown used to her stepcousin’s biting remarks, and she was old enough to know the girl was spoiled and sheltered. Life would teach her differently soon enough. But what truly cut to the quick was the derisive look that said, “poor relation.”

That was a sore point. Sarah felt her face flame and she turned her squared back, grinding her mouth shut and keeping it that way. She could not risk losing her temper and being tossed out of the house, a house Ella still needed.

Sarah’s gaze shot to the window where her little girl was stroking Scout’s silky-looking neck. Ella glowed with happiness, standing beside her new friend, but she remained wan and thin. No amount of food and care seemed to make a difference. Ella’s health was still frail, the doctor had told her. It was likely to remain that way for a while longer.

“Everyone in town will get a chuckle out of your baking for Mr. Gatlin.” Lark shot out the door, apparently delighted to have the last word.

Sarah leaned her forehead against the upper cupboard door and tried not to let the words take root, but how could she help it? Especially when Lark was right.

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