"It's alright," I say. "She got lost in the storm. She's staying until it passes."
Kinsley's eyes flick to me, then back to her. She doesn't move closer, but she doesn't retreat either. Just watches, cautious and curious in equal measure.
She lowers the mug and looks at Kinsley, and something in her expression softens.
"Hi," she says, her voice still a little shaky but warm. Genuine.
Kinsley doesn't answer, but her grip on the book loosens slightly.
She doesn't push. She just holds Kinsley's gaze for a moment, then looks back down at her mug, giving the kid space.
Kinsley takes a step into the room.
I glance at my daughter, and she looks up at me, her expression unreadable. I nod once, permission, and she moves closer, skirting the edge of the room until she's standing near the table, still keeping distance but close enough to see.
The woman notices. I can tell by the way her gaze flicks toward Kinsley, just for a second, before returning to her mug.
"What's your name?" Kinsley asks suddenly.
She looks up, surprised. "Wendy."
"I'm Kinsley."
"That's a pretty name."
Kinsley's cheeks flush, and she looks down at her book, but I catch the small, pleased smile tugging at her mouth.
Wendy takes another sip of her tea, then sets the mug on the floor beside her chair. She leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, and looks at Kinsley again.
"What are you reading?"
Kinsley hesitates, then holds up the book. It's one of the nature guides I picked up in town last fall, one about wildflowers and medicinal plants.
"That's a good one," Wendy says. "I used to teach kids about plants. Not out here, though. In a classroom."
Kinsley's eyes widen slightly. "You're a teacher?"
"I was. Now I'm more of a tutor. One-on-one stuff, mostly."
I file that away. Someone who knows how to work with kids.
Kinsley shifts her weight, her curiosity clearly winning over her caution. "What did you teach?"
"Everything, really. Reading, math, science. But I liked science best. Especially the hands-on stuff—experiments, nature walks, that kind of thing."
Kinsley nods, her expression thoughtful, and I realize she's already decided Wendy is safe.
It doesn't happen often.
Wendy reaches down and scratches Bolt behind the ears, and the dog leans into her hand, tail wagging lazily. She smiles softly and the expression transforms her face.
I look away and move to the stove, checking the beef stew. It's ready, thick and hot, and I ladle some into a bowl, grab a spoon, and bring it to Wendy.
"Eat," I say, handing it to her.
She takes it, her fingers brushing mine briefly, and looks up at me. Her eyes are green, I notice. Bright and clear now that the shock is fading.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
