The kitchen was larger than the entire farmhouse she’d lost. A woman stood at the stove, middle-aged, Asian features, her dark hair streaked with gray. She turned as they entered, and her eyes widened at the parade of children filing through the door.
“How many?” she asked Adelaide.
“Nine.”
“Lord have mercy.” But she was already moving, pulling out bowls, ladling soup, her hands never stopping. “Sit. Sit, all of you. Eat first. Talk later.”
The children didn’t need to be told twice. Margaret watched them descend on the food like wolves. No manners, no restraint, just desperate hunger finally being fed. Tommy tried to eat slowly, tried to set an example, but even he couldn’t help shoveling the soup into his mouth.
“When did they last eat properly?” Adelaide asked quietly.
“Three days ago. Maybe four.” Margaret’s voice was hollow. “Stage got stuck in a drift. Ran out of food.”
“And you?”
Margaret didn’t answer.
Adelaide’s hand closed around her arm, gentle but firm. “Martha, take the baby. Get her fever down.”
“
