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loaves from Mae’s oven. She’d used Mae’s flour, salt, and yeast, a spoonful of honey fresh from the comb, and olive oil from her own dwindling supply. That and a handful of herbs was all she had left of the treasure Quillan had bought from the Italian market in Fairplay.
    It was enough to make the bread he liked drizzled with oil and sprinkled with basil and salt. But she had nothing with which to make the cannelloni or the ravioli, unless—hadn’t he said he’d brought eggs? She could dice Mae’s beef with a pinch of nutmeg for filling, and with the eggs and flour she’d make the pasta dough and cut the ravioli. Without butter and garlic . . .
    Bene. It was the best she could do. Besides, why should she care? What was it to her if Quillan ate well or poorly? But she did care. Especially when he wasn’t near to infuriate her. If only she could find a way . . .
    She set the steaming loaves on the board. The aroma enticed her nostrils, and she breathed it deeply, thinking of home. She had learned how to adjust to the altitude and make the bread as light and crusty as Mamma’s. If she had the right ingredients, she could cook food the men of Crystal would trade their mines for. She smiled at the thought, caressing the end of one loaf. If only she had what she needed.

    Sam bounded toward Quillan as he approached Mae’s back door. Quillan gave the dog a reassuring stroke, let him lick his hands, then patted him lightly. Why did the animal always act as though his very existence depended on Quillan’s affection? Leaving Sam outside the door, Quillan entered Mae’s kitchen, only slightly surprised to find Carina there. But then, the stove in her house was good for little more than warmth. A kettle maybe and a skillet to warm something. Certainly not adequate for the kind of use Carina made of a kitchen.
    Mae went to the corner shelf and stuffed the bills he’d given her into a canister. He saw Carina frown. Did she think he wouldn’t pay her debt? He knew his responsibilities. Mae shuffled to the stove and began slopping beef from one large kettle into a serving pot.
    Quillan crossed to the table where Carina stood over two long crusty loaves, the kind she’d served him before. His mouth watered as he held out the small crate. Not much of a gift for a man to bring his bride, but she took it as though each egg were pure gold.
    “Thank you.” Her eyes met his briefly.
    He didn’t like the way her gaze made his stomach clench up. “You’re welcome.” He sat down on the bench at Mae’s table.
    Near his elbow, Carina set a bowl, and into this she scooped flour. He watched her sprinkle it with salt, then make a well in the center. Her hands made each motion a dance, and he was amazed again by how expressive fingers and palms could be. Her fingers and palms. She lifted one egg from the carton and kissed it.
    Irresistibly, his glance went to her lips. Was she playing a game? Enticing him? She cracked the egg and emptied it into the well, never once looking his way. Then she drizzled in oil and water. His brows rose slightly when she plunged her fingers into the bowl and began working the dough by hand.
    “Do you always do it that way?” He waved at the bowl.
    “How else would I know if the mixture is right?”
    He chewed the side of his lower lip where a crack was starting from the long days in the sun and dust. It wasn’t hard to believe that her hands told her things. They were more than ordinary hands. He watched them work the dough into a pliant sheen, then divide it into two balls.
    She sprinkled the table with flour and rolled one of the balls into a thin sheet. Watching her was like watching a juggler or a musician, someone with a skill beyond that of normal men. She covered the dough with a damp towel and began to mince beef from Mae’s pot. Again with her fingers she sprinkled a brown powdery substance, and he whiffed it but couldn’t name it.
    “What’s that?” He jutted his chin toward the