She looked at him.
Ollie forced himself to meet her eyes.
“I was wrong.”
The apology happened in front of everyone.
Exactly where the insult had.
Maren nodded.
“Sit down before you fall down.”
Ollie did.
Near dawn, Silas found Maren on the porch.
A blanket covered her shoulders.
Her burned arms remained visible.
For once, she did not hide them.
Silas sat beside her.
Not across.
Beside.
Neither spoke for several minutes.
Smoke drifted over the field.
Finally Silas said:
“When you arrived, I told you to stay out of my way.”
Maren smiled faintly.
“I remember.”
“I have been trying all night to find a clean way to take that back.”
“Find one?”
“No.”
She almost laughed.
“So I’ll say something else.”
Silas looked toward the house.
“I had a table nobody sat at.”
“A front room nobody entered.”
“A boy who barely laughed.”
“A house I treated like a grave.”
Maren listened.
“Then you came.”
“You lit lamps.”
“Fixed windows.”
“Made Wesley talk.”
“Made Ollie complain about coffee.”
“That required no effort.”
Silas smiled.
Then looked directly at her.
“Stay.”
Maren’s breath caught.
“You already asked.”
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“I asked the cook.”
She looked at him.
“I am not asking the cook now.”
The blanket tightened beneath her fingers.
“What are you asking?”
Silas took a long breath.
“I don't entirely know.”
The honesty made her smile sadly.
“Promising.”
He continued.
“I know I don't want you leaving.”
“I know Wesley will follow your wagon if you do.”
“I know I look for you every time I enter the kitchen.”
Maren went still.
“I know when you are not at supper.”
“I know your voice from the barn.”
“I know I have spent eleven days pretending I wasn't wondering what happened to you.”
Silas looked toward her scars.
“And now that I know, nothing about you frightens me.”
Maren’s eyes filled.
“Silas.”
It was the first time she had used his given name.
He noticed.
“Say it again.”
She almost laughed.
“Silas.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
Maren looked away.
“No man has ever asked me to stay after seeing them.”
Silas’s voice turned rough.
“Then the men you knew were fools.”
She cried then.
Quietly.
Not dramatically.
Three years of holding herself together simply gave up.
Silas did not immediately touch her.
He waited.
Maren shifted closer.
That was permission.
His arm came around her.
She leaned against his chest.
They sat that way until the sky grew pale.
After sunrise, Maren went to her room.
Silas assumed she was packing.
Something inside him sank.
Then she returned carrying the tin box.
The one nobody had touched.
Maren sat beside him.
Placed it across her knees.
Opened it.
Inside lay three things.
A tiny child’s shoe.
Scorched black along the sole.
A folded letter.
And a brass padlock.
The lock was ruined.
Blackened.
Its shackle had been cut.
Silas stared.