A square wood table sat in the middle of the kitchen area. It was cluttered with sacks of flour and corn meal, a jar of molasses, colonial – style cones of sugar, and a wicker basket filled with sweet potatoes, baking potatoes, and turnips. Several pumpkins sat on the floor beside the table. The counters held jugs of cider, bunches of dried herbs, and loaves of bakery bread. Megan set the rabbit on the floor and motioned to the food.

“Mrs. Hunter likes to cook?”

“No Mrs. Hunter. Just me… and Tibbles.” He peered into the pot. “Do you think it’s done?”

“What is it?”

“Applesauce,” he said, sounding insulted.

“What are those big brown lumps?”

“I think that’s the part that got a little burned.”

Megan wasn’t much of a cook, but she’d never made anything that looked as bad as Patrick Hunter’s applesauce. She wondered if he misplaced babies at the hospital and melted his rubber gloves in the autoclave.

They both turned when the front door swung open and a young girl timidly entered the room. She wore blue jeans and a denim jacket, and she held a well – swaddled baby in one arm and a brown paper shopping bag in the other.

“I knocked, but nobody heard me,” she said. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I have to go.” Tears clung to her lower lashes and straggled down her cheeks. “I have to go, and I can’t take the baby, and I didn’t know what to do… and then I thought of you. I knew you’d take good care of him for me. You and Mrs. Hunter.”

She deposited the baby in Megan’s arms.

“I’m real sorry I’m in such a rush, but if I don’t go now I’ll miss my ride. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise. It won’t be any more than two weeks.” She kissed the baby, scrubbed at the tears on her cheeks, and ran out the door.