So do you. Everett rested the cup on the floor. Outside, lightning flashed through the single window. Rebecca pulled the blanket tighter. Can I ask you something?
Yes. That first night, his eyes lifted. At Miller's crossing, he became very still. Rebecca continued,” You said you'd never had anything like that stew. I remember it wasn't particularly good stew.
It was It was smoked beef, beans, onions, stale bread, and whatever spices the station keeper had left. Still good. Rebecca watched him. You looked like I'd handed you Christmas dinner. Everett's gaze dropped toward the stove.
For several seconds, he said nothing. Then he rubbed one thumb across a scar on his knuckle. My mother died when I was 17. Rebecca did not move. After that, my father and I ate because work required it.
Salt pork, beans, bread if somebody remembered. Most meals lasted about as long as it took to finish them. The fire cracked. My father wasn't cruel, Everett said. He just didn't know how to make a home after she was gone.
Rebecca looked into her cup. Everett continued, “When Hail Creek grew, people cooked for me because I paid wages. In town, people served me because I paid the bill.” His mouth tightened slightly. Some people were extra polite because of my size. Some weren't polite at all.
Either way, I always knew why the plate was there. Rebecca looked at him. And that night, Everett met her eyes. You didn't know who I was. No, you didn't know whether I had money.
No. I looked like trouble. You looked hungry. That? He nodded once.
That right there. Rebecca said nothing. You were feeding 20 people from almost nothing. You'd been working all evening. And when I came through that door, you looked at me once and decided I needed the last bowl more than you did.
Rebecca remembered the station, the wet floorboards, his bloody sleeve, the way his enormous body had nearly filled the doorway. You had carried an injured man 5 miles. You didn't know that when you filled the bowl. No. Everett looked toward the rain black window.
When I said I'd never had anything like it, he stopped. Rebecca waited. He seemed to choose the next words carefully. I wasn't entirely talking about the food. The storm filled the silence for him.
Rebecca lowered her eyes. Her fingers tightened around the blanket. Everett did not move closer. He did not try to explain more. That made the words harder to dismiss.
After a while, Rebecca said, “You gave it to the injured man. Half. I saw he needed it. So did you.” Everett's eyes returned to her. “You noticed that, too.” Rebecca looked at the blanket around her shoulders, then at him sitting against the cold wall in his wet shirt.
She hesitated. Only a moment. Then she pulled the blanket from one shoulder, gathered half of it, and pushed the wool across the floor toward him. Everett stared at it. “Rebecca, don't make me regret being generous.