Something flickered in Adelaide’s face. Not disapproval, not judgment. Something else. Something Margaret couldn’t read.
“The little one.” Adelaide moved closer. “She’s sick.”
“Fever. 10 days now.”
“Has she been eating?”
“Won’t keep nothing down.”
Adelaide reached out, pressed her hand to Bridget’s forehead. Her expression shifted. “Bring her inside. Now, all of you inside. Martha’s got soup on the stove and beds warming. Ma’am—”
“We’ll talk later. Right now, that baby needs tending.”
Margaret didn’t argue. She couldn’t argue. She let Adelaide guide her toward the house. Let Nate help the other children down from the wagon. Let herself be swept into the warmth of a home she didn’t understand.
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