Softly Falling by Carla Kelly

passed.
    She opened the door and there, indeed, was Mr. Sinclair, but he had a child with him. The little girl smiled at her and held out a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper. She took it, feeling the softness of the bread and the warmth of her smile.
    “Please come in.” Lily put her finger to her lips. “Mr. Carteret is asleep.” She gestured to the packing crate settee as graciously as she could, banishing all thoughts of her uncle’s best sitting room, because that life she had put behind her.
    “May I introduce Miss Chantal Sansever?”
    “You may,” Lily said and held out her hand. “I’m Lily Carteret, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    Her eyes wide, Chantal took her hand and gave it three distinct shakes. “Jack says three shakes for ladies,” she whispered.
    Lily laughed, then had to turn away when Chantal put her finger to her lips in perfect imitation. “I forgot,” Lily whispered. “Do sit down, please. Who do I have to thank for this sandwich?”
    “My mother,” Chantal whispered back. She let Mr. Sinclair lift her onto the settee. “She said you were probably too tired to come to the cookshack, so we would make allowances just this once. It’s ground up roast from dinner, with a little onion and sage mixed in.” She put her hands in her lap. “And that is all I am supposed to say, because I am a child.” Chantal looked at Mr. Sinclair for approval, and he nodded.
    “There’s one more thing, isn’t there?” Mr. Sinclair asked.
    Chantal dug into her apron pocket and brought out a peppermint, coated with pocket lint. She frowned at the lint, blew it off, then handed it to Lily. “Jack said I had enough to share.”
    “I’ll put it in my pocket and save it for a special occasion,” Lily said softly.
    “She wanted to meet you,” Mr. Sinclair explained. He held out two pictures. “I said she could come along when I brought these over.”
    Her heart full, Lily took the pictures, one of a tall woman. She remembered the woman in fleeting ways, as if seen through gauze. “She was so beautiful,” she said, running her finger lightly over the image.
    “You look like her, Miss Carteret,” Chantal said, then looked at Mr. Sinclair with a frown. “Is it all right for me to say that? Mama said I mustn’t make a social blunder.”
    “It is a fine compliment, and I thank you.” Lily looked at the other picture. “I’ve never seen this one.”
    “It’s you, isn’t it?” Chantal asked. She sighed. “I keep talking. Mr. Sinclair, you should say something instead of me because you are a grown-up.”
    “You’re the rightful owner of these, even if the ranch is mine now,” Jack said. “They’ve kept me company for a few months.”
    “You probably have your own photographs,” Lily said.
    “Not one. I’ll miss these ladies,” he told her. He looked around the room and shook his head at the half-strung barrier. “So this is your corner of the room? I’d have thought . . .” He paused. “Well, no, this is what he would have done. Can I finish the job?”
    Without waiting for a reply, Mr. Sinclair took the sagging end, stretched it taut, and then wrapped the wire around a nail that Papa must have driven before the whole business defeated him. He draped the two army blankets across the wire.
    “Not too fancy, but it’ll do until something better comes along.”
    And that will be precisely never , Lily thought. “Thank you. I am certain you are right,” she said.
    “I mean it, Lily,” he said, his voice as firm as his expression. “Do you have a plan yet?”
    She shook her head, not even trying to disguise her shame at such a father, and the greater shame at knowing everyone else knew too.
    “Get one fast,” he said, and it was no suggestion. “After Chantal and I leave, take a good look out that window in the lean-to. A good look. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at breakfast at 5:30 and I expect you to have a plan.”
    “Why do you care?” she asked,