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“Lucy thinks—and we all agree—there should be a lending library. The town hall has two rooms on the second floor that aren’t being used. We could put up shelves and fill them with books that would be available to anyone. For free. We just need the books.”

“And how will you get those books?”

“We’ll have to have another fund raiser, but we haven’t decided what yet. It’ll have to be something good. We did put together a recipe book and that was popular, but we don’t want to do that again.”

He didn’t eat much, she noticed. He’d only taken two bites out of his chicken leg and pushed the potatoes around on his plate, while Avery ate every bit, including the corn and the cookie Elsie had slipped into the bag. She had a good appetite, which was good to see.

“All right, Miss Avery, I think it’s time for bed.” Tresia rose from her chair and took the dirty dishes to the counter beside the sink. “You’ve had a busy day.”

“I’ll do that,” Devlin said as he laid his napkin beside his plate and rose from his seat. “We have a routine, Avery and I, don’t we?”

Tresia looked at the girl who still hadn’t spoken a word, though she smiled a lot, especially when she looked at her father with such love in her eyes. “Of course.”

She watched them leave the kitchen, happy with the knowledge that Devlin Goodrich seemed like an attentive father, much as her own had been.

After she’d finished drying the last plate and put it away, the marshal came downstairs. He stood in the doorway for a moment then glanced at the clock on the wall, his expression one of surprise. “I thought you’d gone home.”

She spread the dish towel over the back of a chair to dry. “I was just finishing up.”

“Thank you for taking care of Avery and for picking up dinner.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew his billfold. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I was pleased to do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”

He put his billfold away and just stood there, his hands now gripping the back of the chair. After a long, tense moment, he said, “You have questions.”

“I do.” She had to broach the subject carefully, but words failed her. In the end, she could think of no other way to phrase her query except a bit bluntly. “Why doesn’t Avery speak very much?”

“You noticed.”

“How could I not?” She poured him a cup of coffee and slid it across the table, a silent invitation.

She poured one for herself as well and sat, waiting until he did the same.

It took a moment before he complied, the legs of the chair squeaking against the wood floor as he moved it, though it was obvious to her that he didn’t want to.

“She’s a smart child, Marshal. She’s aware of everything that’s going on around her, but she doesn’t chatter on like most almost five-year-olds I know.

She’s a little shy, I saw that for myself.

I also saw that she responds only when spoken to, usually with a nod or a shake of her head.

Sometimes, she’ll actually use her voice and say yes or no, but not much more, and that seems to be very rare. ” She took a sip of coffee and waited.

And waited a little more.

He looked at his coffee cup, at the wall, at the tabletop, everywhere except at her. For a long time, she didn’t think he would answer so she tried again. “I don’t mean to pry, Marshal, but if I’m going to be taking care of her, then I think I should know.”

He finally looked at her. Pain flashed in his stormy blue eyes.

That pain was repeated in the deep lines around his mouth.

“You’re right. You do need to know.” He shook his head as his gaze held hers captive.

“She wasn’t always so quiet. At one time, she was a regular little chatterbox.

Hannah and I could hardly get her to stop talking. ”

“Hannah? Was she your wife?”

He nodded and once again, that pain flashed in his eyes, telling her, without words, that he still mourned her.

Perhaps Avery did as well, but being a child, she might not be able to express herself so she lapsed into silence instead.

It was a possibility. “Was it the loss of your wife that changed her?”

He stared down at his coffee cup, his body stiff, as if talking about what happened to Hannah hurt him deep in his soul. It probably did. “Yes. And more.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

He simply sat, staring at his coffee, his jaw clenched.

A muscle spasmed in his cheek and his eyes narrowed.

Without knowing the man well at all, she did realize he wasn’t about to say anything more.

Perhaps, in time, he would, but for now, she’d have to let it go.

When he was ready, if he was ever ready, he might take her into his confidence, but now wasn’t the time.

She was here to watch Avery and keep house, nothing more.

“Well then, I should go.” Tresia finished her coffee then rose from her seat and brought the cup to the sink. She rinsed it out then turned to face him. He hadn’t moved, not an inch. He didn’t look at her, either.

Feeling guilty, her entire body flushed, the heat coming from deep inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

He finally looked up at her and the pain reflecting in his eyes made every muscle in her body tense even as her heart went out to him.

She shouldn’t have asked. She knew the pain of losing someone—the confusion, the unanswered questions, the remorse and yes, sometimes the resentment.

From her own experiences, she knew there was no answer to the question of ‘why.’ She also knew that everyone grieved in their own way, in their own time.

In many ways, she was still grieving the loss of Brett, though Brett had passed almost three years ago—sometimes the ache was so intense, it hurt so much, she could hardly stand it.

Add to that the recent death of her father, and sometimes, the pain brought her to her knees.

“Good night, Marshal.” She left the house, closing the kitchen door softly behind her, determined to bring Avery out of her shell and perhaps, in the process, ease the pain she saw in Marshal Devlin Goodrich’s eyes.