She motioned toward the stove. “Set him there. Slow.”
Tom knelt and lowered the child onto the braided rug near the fire. The boy stirred, a small sound slipping from his throat. Not quite awake. Not quite safe yet either.
“What’s his name?” Bea asked.
“Samuel. Sam.” Tom brushed damp curls off the boy’s forehead with a tenderness that caught Bea off guard. “He’s seven.”
Bea crouched stiffly and pressed the back of her hand to the boy’s cheek. Cold, but not dangerous. She nodded once.
“You can stay till the storm eases,” she said. “But no trouble.”
Tom met her eyes. “No trouble, ma’am.”
She poured coffee thick enough to stand a spoon in and handed him a cup. He wrapped both hands around it like a man reacquainting himself with warmth.
They didn’t speak for a while. The fire cracked. The wind tested the shutters. Sam’s breathing deepened, steadier now.
Bea studied the stranger in the flicker-light. His coat was worn past pride. Boots resoled more than once. Not a drifter exactly. Not careless. Just a man who had walked a long way.
