“You put that on you,” she ordered with some of the authority of a mother, or at least of an elder sister. “I’d leave you my coat, only they’d notice.” She picked up the rifle again. “Now I’ll put this here where it belongs an’ maybe they won’t go on huntin’.”
Speechless Dard watched her turn down trail, still at a loss to understand her actions. Was she really going to return that rifle to the barn—how could she, knowing the truth? And why?
He knelt to wind the scarf around Dessie’s head and shoulders. For some reason Folley’s daughter wanted to help them and he was beginning to realize that he needed all the aid he could get.
The packet Lotta had left contained such food as he had not seen in years—real bread, thick buttered slices of it, and a great hunk of fat pork. Dessie would not eat unless he shared it with her, and he took enough to flavor his own meal of the wretched fare they had brought with them. When they had finished he asked one of the questions which had been in his mind ever since Lotta’s amazing actions.
“Do you know Lotta well, Dessie?”
She ran her tongue around her greasy lips, collecting stray crumbs.
“Lotta came over often.”
“But I haven’t seen her since—” he stopped before mentioning Kathia’s death.
“She comes and talks to me when I am in the fields. I think she is afraid of you and—Daddy. She always brings me nice things to eat. She said that some day she wanted to give me a dress—a pink dress. I would very much like a pink dress, Dardie. I like Lotta—she is always good—inside she is good.”
Dessie smoothed down the ends of her new scarf.