Page 27 of Cowboy’s Christmas Baker

Mal nodded. She remembered being called up to the board to solve problems. She had hated it too, but mainly because she was not good at solving math problems. She suspected for Katie it was more than that.

Does she freeze up in front of her class? Do the other kids tease her?

Katie turned back to the recipe, so Mal grabbed a big mixing bowl and placed it on the counter so they could begin.

She did her best to keep up a quiet running commentary of tips and alternative recipe items as they prepared the honey syrup. But she also let the kitchen go silent except for the music fairly often, hoping Katie would chime in with something.

Katie hadn’t filled any of the silences yet, but one of these times she would, Mal was sure of it.

Meanwhile, the serious little girl was showing herself to be really good in the kitchen. For an eight-year-old, she was surprisingly deft at the various measurements, even managing to pour the honey without spilling a drop.

Before too long, the syrup was ready, and they chopped up the walnuts and added the cinnamon. Classic Christmas songs played on the radio the whole time, but Katie didn’t so much as hum along.

That was just fine with Mal though. There was a warm feeling in the bright space as they worked together, pre-heating the oven and preparing the pan.

As they buttered and layered on phyllo, carefully counting out sheets between layers of cinnamon walnuts, Katie visibly relaxed. Something about the detailed work of building the delicate dessert had focused her on something outside herself.

It was all too familiar to Mal, and caused a pang in her own heart. When her mom first passed, Mal had thrown herself into the bakery, chasing that same feeling of flow she could sometimes enter when she was preparing something detailed and special.

Katie seemed more comfortable than Mal had ever seen her, and that was a good thing. She was feeling really good about how things were going when a buttered sheet of phyllo slipped out of Katie’s hand.

“Oh no,” Katie said, her relaxed expression vanishing.

“Hey, that’s okay,” Mal said. “We’ve got plenty.”

But Katie was disappearing again, her eyes far away, like she didn’t want to engage anymore.

“I’ll just clean it up,” Mal said, quickly grabbing spray and a rag. “Actually, would you mind doing it? I’m getting thirsty.”

Katie took the spray bottle and rag without a word and bent to grab the sheet of phyllo.

Mal waited until Katie had deposited it in the trash can and was spraying and scrubbing the floor before she pulled out two mugs and the plastic pitcher of cold water with lemons she kept in one of the refrigerators.

It was a pity to do it, but drastic times called for drastic measures.

Setting the pitcher on the edge of the opposite counter, she turned to grab the mugs and knocked it down with her elbow.

The pitcher hit the tiles, sending lemon-infused water splashing all over the floor.

I had been meaning to give that grout a good scrub tonight anyway, Mal told herself as she gave out a little yelp that she hoped sounded surprised.

“You did that on purpose,” Katie said accusingly, her voice ringing bell-clear across the kitchen.

This kid didn’t miss a beat.

Mal opened her mouth and closed it again.

“I, uh,” she stammered. “I…”

But she just couldn’t bring herself to lie.

“I guess I’m a pretty bad actor,” she admitted. “It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

For a moment, the only sound was Dean Martin crooning on the radio.

Then Katie started laughing—small at first, but quickly gaining speed and weight like a snowball rolling down a mountain.

Katie’s laughter was so surprising and infectious that the next thing Mal knew, she was helplessly laughing right along with her.