The boy glanced at his mother, who was three-quarters asleep. “Leave her be,” Gabe said softly. “She’s very tired. Just eat your pie and then we’ll all get to bed.”
Nicky looked dubiously at the wedge of pie. He made no move to touch it.
“Don’t you like pork, either?” Gabe asked. “Well, then, if you don’t want it.” He took it and munched into it.
The boy watched him. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” he said after Gabe had swallowed the last mouthful. “I’m very hungry.”
“Right then, cut yourself another slice while I get you something warm to drink.”
Nicky cut himself a small wedge and gave the pie a cautious nibble. His eyes widened. “It’s very good.”
“Told you it was,” Gabe told him. He went back into the pantry and poured some milk into a pan. By the time he returned Nicky was finishing off his slice of pie with every evidence of satisfaction. Gabe heated the milk, poured some into a cup, stirred in some honey and handed it to the boy.
The boy stared at it as if the cup contained a live snake.
Gabe said in mild exasperation. “Is it some foreign custom of yours, to refuse what food and drink is first offered to you? Here, it’s polite to accept the first time, so just drink the milk and don’t make a fuss.”
The little boy blanched. “Mama!” It came out in a thin, frightened wail.
His mother woke, saw him handing the cup of milk to the boy, leapt from her chair, and dashed it from Gabe’s hands. Milk splashed over the stone floor. She thrust Nicky behind her, glanced around, saw the knife he’d used to cut the pie, and snatched it up.
“What on earth—” Gabe began.
“Don’t touch him!” She was poised for action; a young lioness in defense of her cub. “Nicky, did you drink any of it?”
“No, Mama.” She sagged with visible relief.
“It was only warm milk,” Gabe said tightly. He bent and picked up the cup.
She waved the knife at him. “Stay back.”
He ignored her and went to the door, opened it, and whistled. His dog, Juno, bounded in, her tail wagging joyfully. “Over there,” he told her and pointed to the spilled milk and honey.
“No!” the boy gasped and moved to get between the milk and the dog.
She wagged her tail briefly—Juno liked boys—but food was always a priority, and she pushed past him and happily licked up the milk. The woman and the boy stared at Gabe as if he were a monster.
Gabe fetched another cup from the dresser and, from the small pot on the stove, poured hot milk into another cup. Two pairs of eyes watched him.
“He put something into it before,” Nicky told his mother.
“From this pot, yes,” Gabe affirmed and stirred a spoonful of viscous liquid into the mug. “It’s honey. Warm milk and honey. Good for helping people sleep.” He drank from the cup and then held it out toward Nicky.
There was a long moment of silence. Juno had licked every drop of milk from the floor and discovered a crumb or two of pie crust, and now was ready to renew her acquaintance with the boy. She nudged his elbow in a friendly fashion, demanding to be patted. He caressed her silky ears, felt her cold nose, and looked carefully into her eyes. Her tail thumped happily on the floor at this attention.
The boy and the woman looked from the dog to the man to the cup of milk and to the dog again. “Sometimes you just have to take people on trust,” Gabe said quietly and set the cup on the table. “If I’d wanted to harm you, I could have tossed you both off that cliff and saved myself a lot of trouble.”
For a long time nobody moved. Callie tried to read his eyes. They were steady and blue, very blue. But you couldn’t decide a man was trustworthy just because he had eyes that were blue. But steady as well as blue…
She stared into his eyes and remembered how he’d pulled her from the cliff top. She thought about the way he’d held her on the horse, steady and warm, tucking his coat around her to shelter her from the rain.
Then, staring into the bluest blue eyes she’d ever seen, Callie picked up the cup of milk and took a mouthful. It tasted of warm milk and honey. Nothing else. Just as he’d said. She tasted it again, just to be sure.
The dog nudged Nicky’s arm, her feathered tail waving gently, her brown eyes liquid and clear and trusting. And unharmed.
Slowly the tension flowed out of Callie. She nodded, passed the cup to Nicky, put the knife back on the table, and returned to her seat, feeling distinctly wobbly.
Nicky took a cautious sip of the milk. Meanwhile, the dog fetched a stick from the basket by the fire and placed it expectantly at Nicky’s feet.
