A man who’d given her food and shelter. It made her think of Lloyd, what he’d said at that first full community meeting.

Still, she locked the door behind her, adding a charm to block entrance. She didn’t consider it overkill to carry a chair over and prop it under the doorknob.

She wanted to sleep, just wanted to go away for a while. On clean sheets, with pillows, under a duvet of forest green. Thinking of his mother, she considered the dirt and grime she carried from the trail, and stepped into the adjoining bath.

She wouldn’t disrespect the woman whose home offered sanctuary by besmirching her bed.

Here, too, he’d put things to rights. A stack of fluffy towels on clean, if dusty, counters. Setting aside her pack, she opened the glass door of the shower.

Shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, even a woman’s shower razor. As her own supplies had dwindled, Lana ignored the niceties as she stripped down. She’d use whatever she needed now, apologize later.

If she wept a little as hot water beat down on her, as she watched the dirt—that quick washes in streams and creeks hadn’t touched—spiral down the floor drain, she told herself she was entitled to a few tears.

She indulged—who knew how long this bounty would last?—wrapped her hair in a towel, her body in another.

Soft, so blissfully soft.

Turning, she studied herself in the mirror. Her breasts, her belly, so ripe. She must be at thirty-three or thirty-four weeks now. With all her heart she believed her daughter remained healthy and strong. She felt that light, that life—both depending on her.

If that meant she had to depend on the largess of a stranger, she would. Cautiously, but she would.

She eyed the baskets on the open shelves beside the mirror.

Body lotion, skin cream, all so wonderfully female.

“Madeline Swift,” she murmured. “I’m grateful, and hope you don’t mind.”

She slathered herself, all but felt her thirsty skin gulp in the moisture. As nothing in her pack resembled clean, she borrowed the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

Trembling with gratitude, she turned down the duvet, slid into the sheets. She slept, and slept dreamlessly.

Awoke with a jerk, her heart pounding as she tried to remember where she was.

The farmhouse, the man with the tough face and careless generosity. She got up as quickly as her heavy belly allowed, tidied the bed, rehung the robe. Dressed.

The sun told her it was after noon—she’d gotten good at gauging the time. So she’d slept at least two hours. If she wanted to stay the night—God, she wanted to stay the night—she had to earn her keep.

Curious, she moved quietly along the second floor, found another bathroom, smaller than what he’d allowed her, and obviously what he used.

A towel hung over the shower door, a toothbrush stood in a cup on a small vanity.

She found a guest room—as she didn’t imagine Simon Swift slept under a cover dotted with pretty violets—another room, a spare bedroom and sitting room combination, she supposed, with a sewing station under the window.

Lastly, his room—unmade bed, a shirt tossed over a chair back, and air that carried the faint hints of earth and grass.

She noted the shotgun propped in the corner, respected his choice to keep a weapon close while he slept.

She didn’t find him downstairs, so she looked out windows until she spotted him working in the garden. Sweat dampened his shirt as he hoed between rows. The dogs slept under the apple tree, by the grave markers, and the horses watched him with their heads over the fence.

Her first thought was to go out and offer to help, but she noted the dishes they’d used that morning sat, clean, dry now, beside the sink. She saw no other signs he’d made a meal while she’d showered, slept, explored.

So she’d earn her keep by scouting through the kitchen and making him lunch.

When he came in, hot and hungry, the dogs bursting in ahead of him, he saw her at the stove. Something smelled damn good, and some of that, he realized, was woman.

She’d wrapped her hair up somehow or other, and it shined like butterscotch candy. When she turned, her face struck him. Quiet and wary beauty.

The wariness for him, he thought, as the charge of the dogs, their manic tail flapping didn’t appear to bother her.

He kept it light. “What’s cooking?”

“Stir-fry—vegetables and rice. I thought you could use lunch more than a hand in the garden.”

“Good thinking.” He moved to the sink, washed the dirt off his hands and arms. “Where’d you cook? For a living?”

“New York.”

“Big city.”

“It was.” She plated the food, added one of the cloth napkins she’d found in a drawer, handed him both. “I saw some sourdough starter in your refrigerator.”

“Yeah, my father liked to bake bread. He couldn’t cook anything else worth a damn, but he liked baking bread. I’ve been feeding it, but…”

“I’ll bake some bread if you want.”

“That’d be good.” He sat. “Aren’t you eating?”

She nodded, but didn’t get a plate, or sit. “I want to thank you—”

“You already did.”

“I haven’t had a real shower in … I’ll apologize if I get emotional. Some of it’s hormones. But being able to wash my hair … I used your mother’s shampoo, and her shower gel. And she has—had—skin cream. It was open, and I used some. I just used it without…”

“You could do me a favor and not cry over that.”

He looked at her as he ate with annoyed hazel eyes. Eyes that blurred green and gold together. “It’ll put me off this stir-fry, and it’s damn good. She wouldn’t care, and I sure don’t. Look, I dealt with my dad’s stuff like that. I couldn’t seem to go through hers. So use what you want.”

“She has backups. Unopened. You could barter them.”

“Use it.” This time his tone snapped a bit. “If I’d wanted to barter her damn face cream, I would have.”

Understanding pain, and loss, she said nothing more until she’d plated some lunch for herself and sat.

“If you’d tell me if there are any off-limits rooms in the house while I’m here.”

“Other than the locked room in the basement full of the mutilated bodies of my victims, no.”

She scooped up some stir-fry. He was right. It was damn good. “All right, I’ll stay out of there. Do you have any food allergies?”

“I’m temperamentally allergic to spinach.”

“Then I won’t put any in the meatloaf.”

* * *

Simon gave Lana plenty of space. He expected she’d stay for a couple days, pull herself together. He didn’t have a problem giving her that time and space, especially since, Jesus, the woman could cook.

Plus, she carried her weight, no question, during those couple of days. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the dust and dog hair—but he noticed when it was gone. Maybe he hadn’t had a problem snagging clothes or towels out of a laundry basket, but it didn’t hurt his feelings to find them all folded and where they belonged.

The dogs liked her. He’d walked by the library late one night and had seen her sitting in the dark—grieving for her husband—with Harper’s head on her knee, Lee sprawled over her feet.

He figured to take her into the settlement once she’d gathered herself, turn her over to one of the women he knew. Any one of them would know more about dealing with a pregnant woman and delivering a baby than he did.

As for her insistence that the baby she carried was both special and a target of dark forces, he’d reserve judgment. While he couldn’t deny he’d gotten used to looking out for himself alone, and the farm, he couldn’t just turn her out.

He’d been raised better than that. He was better than that.

She wasn’t much for conversation, and that was fine, too, as he’d grown accustomed to the quiet.

He thought of her as a kind of temporary, live-in farmhand who put together three solid meals a day, and dealt with the house so he didn’t have to.

One who didn’t look to be entertained, one who wasn’t hard on the eyes, especially since after a couple of days she’d lost most of the living-on-raw-nerves edge that had haunted her eyes.