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enough.
* * * *
    "Damn!” The skillet clattered noisily against the stovetop, and Matthew swore again.
    He wondered how many fingers he'd have left by the end of the week. Those he didn't burn off he would most likely slice away with the butcher knife.
    He looked back to find Sarah gaping at him from her highchair, her eyes wide with alarm.
    "Everything's all right, sweetheart,” he tried to reassure her. “I'll have your breakfast ready in a minute."
    Determined that he could at least manage scrambled eggs, he turned back to the stove and reached for the skillet once again, this time armed with a pot holder. He spooned in a bit of bacon grease, watched it melt and slide across the pan. He broke the first egg into the pan and then another. They began to sizzle and he whisked the yolks and whites together until the eggs were done.
    Scrambled were easier than fried, he'd learned that quick enough, and he'd given up on bread of any kind. At first, meals hadn't been much of a problem. Ladies from the church had provided a steady stream of food for the two of them. Gradually, the dishes became accompanied with stern admonitions that he owed it to his child to marry again and less than subtle references to unmarried female relatives: daughters, nieces, and sometimes themselves!
    A man couldn't work his land if he was burdened with tending to a child, they would say over and over, and the last straw had been a stern warning that Sarah would be better off in an orphan's home if he refused to take a wife. His scathing reply had put an end to the covered dish brigade, but he'd rather eat his own cooking than listen to anyone suggest he should give up his little girl.
    Remembering the pot holder, he took the pan from the stove and raked the eggs onto a plate. They were a little runny, but he managed to conceal that fact by scraping the worst of it onto his own plate. When he placed her breakfast before his daughter, she looked up at him doubtfully.
    Ignoring her spoon, Sarah tested the eggs with her fingers, and her expression became even more skeptical.
    "Eat up, darlin',” he urged, seating himself across from her. “We've got a lot to do today."
    And he had no idea how he would get any of it done and tend to Sarah, who was still more baby than child. He'd already lost a week and a half in the fields thanks to unreliable help. Twice, he'd thought he'd found someone to watch the little girl while he worked, but both girls had quit after only a few days. One got married and ran off in the middle of the night, and the other was offered a housekeeping job for a lot more money than he could pay.
    Now he was right back where he started, and his options were limited. He had married once out of necessity and vowed it would never happen again, but he would lose everything if he didn't get his crops planted.
    His grim thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a horse and buggy approaching the house. Foregoing his own breakfast, Matthew reached for his coffee cup just before going outside. He suspected such an early morning visitor would not be bringing good news.
    To his surprise, he found Eula Chandler bringing her buggy to a halt in front of the house. He hurried to help her down. “Hello, Miss Eula."
    "Matthew, dear, how are you?"
    "Fine, just fine. And you?"
    "Just splendid.” She smiled up at him, and he swore he saw mischief in her eyes. “As you can see, I'm driving my own buggy, something a lady wouldn't have dreamed of in my day."
    "It's a little early for a drive, isn't it?"
    She smiled even more at his teasing. “No, I came to speak with you."
    He waited, but she didn't elaborate. After an awkward silence, he asked, “Would you like to come inside?"
    "Thank you, I would."
    He was even more puzzled. He'd expected her to decline the invitation and state her business. Instead, she seemed intent on nothing more than a leisurely visit. They crossed the porch, and he moved to open the screen door leading to the