Deborah Camp by Blazing Embers

clattered against his teeth and a drop of the milky soup pooled in the corner of his mouth. Cassie sighed and lifted a corner of her apron to scoop it up. “Just like a baby,” she complained.
    “Sorry. I’m not used to being spoon-fed, and you, obviously, aren’t used to spoon-feeding. You almost missed my mouth.”
    “If you can do better, do it!” Cassie snapped, tired of his bellyaching.
    He opened his mouth wide and his eyes laughed at her. Cassie beat back her irritation and poked the spoon into his mouth until he almost gagged on it.
    “Jesus Christ, woman!” he bawled, coughing and batting her hand away. “Can’t you be gentle?”
    “No.” Cassie held up another spoonful of soup. “Open up.”
    He obliged but cringed a little when she moved the soup forward. An inner voice chastised her for taking advantage of his predicament; she gave in to it and tried to be more obliging. He ate in silence, taking in one spoonful after another until the bowl was half empty; then he shook his head.
    “That’s all I can manage.” His voice was weaker and Cassie noticed that much of the energy had waned from his pitchy eyes. His head fell back against the pillow and his lashes made dark crescents on his pale cheeks.
    “You feeling sick?”
    “No, just tired. Worn out.” He wiggled his hips and inched down into the bed. “Thank you for the soup.”
    Cassie placed the bowl on the table and helped position the pillows more comfortably under his head. When she stood up and started to leave the bedroom, she heard him stir and paused to glance back at him.
    “Did you say your name was Cassie?”
    “That’s right. Cassandra Mae Potter.”
    “I’m Rook.”
    She started to tell him that she already knew his name, but he closed his eyes again, shutting out the rest of the world. Cassie shrugged and closed the door behind her. She went to the stove and helped herself to a portion of the soup.
    Sitting at the kitchen table where she and Shorty had shared many a meal, she felt the emptiness again, a deep, gaping hole in her soul that made her want to cry out. Pa had been crazy about her tater soup and had never failed to lavish her with compliments when she served it. He had bragged to everybody who’d listen about what a great cook she was—just like her ma.
    On impulse, she went to Shorty’s cot and sat on the floor beside it. Reaching under it, she pulled out the flat iron trunk that held Shorty Potter’s belongings. The lid opened on squeaky hinges and Cassie smiled as she spotted Shorty’s folded clothing: longhandles, suspenders, pants, shirts, and a pair of dress shoes that she’d never seen him wear. She removed the clothing, letting her fingers glide over the familiar items while her nose caught the woodsy scent of Shorty Potter. The smell of him brought sentimental tears to her eyes as she recalled the feel of his whiskers when she’d kissed him and the touch of his calloused hands on her face. The tears spilled over onto her cheeks, and she didn’t bother to try to keep them at bay. It felt good to cry.
    She held up one of the shirts, measuring it with her eyes, and decided that it was too small for Rook. She folded it again and placed it on top of the others; then she set the two pairs of suspenders to one side. The suspenders might be useful, but the shirts and pants would never fit that long-limbed, tall stranger. Eben Potter hadn’t been called Shorty for nothing. Rook probably was a good foot or more taller than Pa and would never fit into these clothes. She’d have to wash his dirty garments like Jewel had said.
    Yellowed papers and brown photographs were strewn across the bottom of the trunk, and Cassie sorted through them. Most of the people in the photographs were relatives and friends she couldn’t remember. She found her birth certificate among the papers and her parents’ wedding license, both issued in St. Louis. The last paper she pickedup was the one she’d been looking for—the deed