Behind us, I hear his voice, low and steady. "Kinsley. Time to wash up for dinner."
She glances at me, then back toward the door. "Okay."
I stand and follow her out into the main room.
The fire has been stoked, flames leaping higher now, and the cabin is warm enough that I can feel sweat prickling along my hairline. My coat is draped over the back of a chair, and my boots are lined up neatly by the door.
Ezra is at the stove, ladling stew into bowls. He glances at me briefly, his expression unreadable, then sets the bowls on the table.
Kinsley moves to a basin near the counter and washes her hands, drying them on a towel before sitting at the table. I do the same, the water cold enough to sting, and take the seat across from her.
He sits at the head of the table, his chair creaking under his weight. He's so large that the space feels smaller with him in it, like the walls have shifted inward.
He slides one of the bowls toward me, along with a spoon and a thick slice of bread.
“Figured you could use another round,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Thank you," I say.
Ezra nods and picks up his own spoon.
We eat in silence at first, the only sounds the clink of utensils against ceramic and the crackle of the fire.
The stew is rich and hearty, full of root vegetables and chunks of tender meat. The bread is dense and slightly sweet, and I tear off pieces, dipping them into the broth.
It's the best thing I've eaten in weeks.
Kinsley finishes first, setting her spoon down with a soft clink. "May I be excused?"
He glances at her bowl, then nods. "Go ahead."
She carries her bowl to the counter, then disappears back into her room.
I take another bite of stew, trying not to stare at him across the table. But it's hard not to notice him, the way his hands dwarf the spoon, or the way his shoulders fill the space.
"She's a great kid," I say finally, breaking the silence.
He looks up, his blue eyes steady. "She is."
"You've done a good job with her. Home-schooling can't be easy."
"It's what she needs."
There's no defensiveness in his tone, just certainty. But I catch the edge of worry beneath it.
"She's lucky to have you," I say.
He doesn't respond right away. Just looks at me for a long moment, like he's trying to decide if I mean it.
"She misses things," he says finally. "Other kids. Structure that isn't just me."
"She seems happy."
"She is. Mostly." He pauses, his jaw tightening slightly. "But I wonder sometimes if I'm doing right by her. Keeping her out here, away from everything."
The admission surprises me. Not the worry, but the fact that he's saying it out loud.
"You're giving her safety," I say. "And attention. A lot of kids don't get that."
