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depressed and ready to burst into tears again, but no one would ever be able to say she didn’t stand behind her word.
    Rose heard the door hinges protest softly. Images of savage Indians, marauding Mexican bandits, and rampaging rustlers burst into her imagination. She might not have to worry about years of drudgery. She might die in the next instant.

Chapter Three
    Rose whirled about to find herself looking squarely into the utterly charming, thoroughly dirty face of a beautiful little boy. His wide-eyed stare made a mockery of the fright that had caused her heart to pound.
    “Are you the lady who’s going to cook for us?” he asked.He didn’t step inside the kitchen, just stuck his head in the door.
    “Yes, I am,” Rose said, quickly drying her eyes.
    “You don’t have to cry. George won’t hurt you. He’s pretty mean sometimes, but I don’t think he’ll hit you. Monty says he’s…” The child stopped and considered for a moment. “I don’t suppose I ought to tell you what Monty says. George says he never heard such language, and he fought in the war.”
    “I’m not crying because I’m afraid of George.”
    “Then why are you crying? You’re not hurt, are you?” He came a little closer, but kept the door ajar.
    Rose figured he intended to keep his escape route open.
    “I’m just crying about the house.”
    “It ain’t so bad. It was worse before George came home.”
    “He doesn’t like the kitchen to be dirty?” That, at least, was something in his favor.
    “He said if we wasn’t going to clean it up ourselves we had to hire somebody. You like cleaning?”
    “Not especially.”
    “Tyler says cleaning is dumb. I don’t see how it can be much fun, even for a woman.”
    “Women like unaccountable things,” Rose told him, feeling a little better for having someone to talk to. “But I’m afraid I’m going to need your help.”
    The boy quickly backed through the door.
    “Your name is Zac, isn’t it?” she asked as she came around the table toward him.
    “Yeah.” Only his head showed.
    “Well, Zac, I’ve got to clean up the kitchen if I’m going to fix dinner. I’ll need a large tub, a bucket, some firewood, and water. Can you help me?”
    “I can show you the well.”
    “I was hoping for a little more than that.”
    “That’s Tyler’s job,” Zac told her, his lower lip beginning to protrude. “I only have to do the milking and bring in the eggs, and I don’t have to do that until nearly dark.”
    “Well, I’ll make a bargain with you. If you’ll show me where to find everything I need, I won’t ask you to help. But you’ve got to find Tyler.”
    “Okay,” Zac agreed. He bounded away and came back almost immediately with a wooden bucket. “Follow me,” he said, as he led her around the corner of the house to a well which had been dug within the lengthening shadow of a large oak tree. “You’ll have to take the dishes out of the tub. We don’t have another one unless you mean to use the wash pot.”
    Rose had hoped she wouldn’t have to touch the dishes until they had sat at least an hour in hot, soapy water, but there seemed no help for it. While she filled her bucket, Zac gathered an armload of firewood. “I have to do the fires, too,” he admitted as they walked back to the house. “George shouldn’t give me so much work, but when you’re little, you can’t make anybody listen to you. Especially not Monty. He won’t listen to anybody. Not even George.”
    Zac let Rose hold the door open for him.
    Rose set down her bucket of water and started to empty the tub. “Tell me more about your brothers.” If she intended to make a place for herself in this family, she had to learn something about them. Besides, she’d welcome anything that would take her mind off these disgusting dishes.
    “I don’t know nothing about George and Jeff. Madison neither. He left after Ma died, and we ain’t heard from him.”
    “Haven’t heard from him,” Rose corrected