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containers of whipping cream.”
    “In the back getting ready, huh?”
    Uh-oh.
    With an apologetic shrug in their teacher’s direction, Tori clapped her hands together and smiled at the students. “You’ve been reading about Laura Ingalls, is that right?”
    Heads nodded.
    “Does anyone remember where Laura’s food came from?”
    A little girl with strawberry blonde hair raised her hand tentatively into the air.
    “Yes, sweetheart?”
    “Her Pa grew the corn and the wheat. The chickens gave the eggs and the cows made the milk.”
    “Excellent.” Tori looked around the room, pointed to another little girl who seemed as if she wanted to add something yet hadn’t raised her hand. “Can you think of anything else?”
    The little girl shook her head fiercely, despite the knowledge that shone in her eyes.
    “Go ahead, Lulu, it’s okay.” The child’s teacher walked around the back of the circle and lowered himself to the carpet directly beside the girl.
    “They made their own butter, too,” the girl whispered.
    Tori clapped her hands once again. “Very, very good, Lulu. That’s exactly what they did. Does anyone remember how they did it?”
    The children looked at one another, their faces blank.
    Once again, Lulu’s eyes shone.
    “Lulu? Do you remember?” Tori prompted gently.
    The child whispered once again. “A churn.”
    “You’re exactly right, Lulu. Thank you.” Tori smiled at the shy little girl before addressing the class as a whole once again. “It took a long time to make butter when Laura was alive. A very long time.”
    “My mom just goes to the market and buys it in a box,” offered a freckle-faced redhead in the front.
    “I bet most people do,” Tori replied. “But today, we’re going to make some butter just like Laura did.”
    “Whoa, cool,” several voices said in unison as other students looked at one another with broad smiles on their faces.
    “Only instead of taking turns with one churn, you’re each going to get to make your very own lump of butter in one of these jars.” Tori lifted one of the containers into the air and twisted the lid open. “I’m going to give each of you a jar and then Miss Morgan is going to come around and put some whipping cream into each jar.”
    “What do we do then?” asked the little boy in the front.
    “We shake it.”
    Tori grinned. “That’s right, Lulu, we shake it . . . and shake it . . . and shake it.” She handed a jar to each child, stopping to open each and every lid. “And when you think you’re all done shaking, you shake some more.”
    Once the students were ready to shake, Tori moved off to the side to watch them in action. Excitement turned to momentary boredom only to be replaced by excitement once again as the whipping cream began to solidify.
    “Nice save, Miss Sinclair.”
    Tori’s mouth went dry.
    “I’m Milo Wentworth.”
    She felt his warm hand close over hers. “I’m Tori—I mean, Victoria.”
    “ Tori , huh? That’s pretty.”
    She stared at the handsome teacher, resisted the urge to ask if he was feeling ill.
    “I’m sorry we barged in on you today, Tori.”
    “You didn’t.”
    He leaned his mouth closer to her ear. “Nina’s not good at feigning surprise.”
    She knew her face had to be bright red. “I’m sorry. The appointment book got misplaced somehow. It won’t happen again.”
    He straightened up as a student approached. “Mr. Wentworth, look at my cream. It’s not so runny anymore.”
    “I see that, Bobby. Keep shaking.” As the child returned to his gaggle of friends, the man trained his focus back on Tori. “Please. No apologies. Starting a new job is always overwhelming. A lost appointment book only makes it worse. But you were amazing just now.”
    Amazing.
    “I’ll be ready for you next Friday, I promise.”
    He laughed, a wonderful sound that resonated from deep inside his chest. “I can’t wait to see what you call ready.”
    “What will you be studying next week?” she