It's not much, just a cabin and some land, but it's dry, and we've got food, and you're welcome to shelter there until you figure out your next move. I don't understand. Why would you Because it's the right thing to do. Jonas's hand remained steady, waiting. And because I've got nine kids back there who've learned that when you see someone in need, you help.
Can't very well preach that and then leave you out here in the rain, can I? Nine kids. The thought should have been absurd, overwhelming. Instead, it was the detail that made Lena's hand move, reaching up to grasp his. His grip was warm, solid, calloused from work.
He pulled her to her feet with effortless strength, steadying her when she swayed. Thank you, Lena managed. Jonas nodded, then turned to the children who'd been waiting patiently. All right, crew, we've got a guest. Ruthie, give Miss He paused, looking at Lena.
Crowell, she supplied. Lena Crowell. Give Miss Crowell your spare cloak. Samuel, you take the lead. I'll bring up the rear.
Let's get home before this rain gets any worse. The children sprang into action with practiced efficiency. A teenage girl, Ruthie, Lena assumed, appeared at her side, draping a thick wool cloak over her shoulders. It smelled like wood smoke and pine sap, and the warmth was immediate, merciful. Thank you, Lena said to the girl.
Ruthie just nodded, her dark eyes cautious but not unkind, before falling back into line with her siblings. They walked. Jonas kept pace beside Lena, close enough that she felt his presence like a shield against the storm. The children moved ahead, their voices carrying back through the rain, bickering, laughing, asking questions that Jonas answered with patient humor. How old are they?
Lena asked, needing to focus on something beyond her own misery. Ruthie's 15, Samuel's 13. Then there's Margaret, we call her Maggie, she's 11. The twins, Daniel and David, are nine. Esther's seven.
Jacob's five, Rose is three, and the baby, Eliza, just turned one last month. Nine children. Nine. Lena's mind reeled. Your wife must be dead.
The word was gentle but final. Three years now. Fever took her. Oh. I'm sorry.
I didn't mean to. It's all right. You couldn't have known. Jonas adjusted his hat, rain streaming off the brim. We manage.
The older ones help with the younger ones. We've got a routine. It works. But Lena heard what he wasn't saying, the exhaustion buried under the calm, the weight of raising nine children alone, the daily struggle to keep everyone fed and safe and whole. They crested a small hill, and through the rain, Lena saw lights.