Caleb’s father had built the first structure.
Caleb added the rest.
Eleanor dismounted slowly.
Every muscle hurt.
Caleb noticed.
“Wait.”
“I can walk.”
“I know.”
He approached the horse.
Held out both hands.
Eleanor looked down.
There had been a time when accepting help from men meant enduring the theatrical strain afterward.
A grunt.
A joke.
Something about her weight.
She hated it.
Caleb waited.
No pressure.
Eleanor finally placed both hands on his shoulders.
He held her waist.
Lifted enough to guide her descent.
No grunt.
No expression.
Her boots touched snow.
His hands remained at her waist one heartbeat too long.
Or perhaps Eleanor imagined it.
His eyes met hers.
Then he stepped back.
“House.”
She followed.
Inside, the first thing she noticed was how empty it felt.
Not dirty.
Caleb was surprisingly clean.
But empty.
One chair.
One table.
One bed behind a heavy curtain.
Tools neatly arranged.
Few decorative objects.
A framed map.
A shelf of books.
No curtains at the windows.
No rug.
No unnecessary color.
The home of a man who lived.
Not a man who expected anyone else to notice he did.
Caleb pointed toward the sleeping space.
“You take the bed.”
Eleanor looked.
Large mattress.
Possibly wide enough for two.
“And you?”
“Floor.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“No?”
“The contract says you won't bother me.”
“Yes.”
“It does not require theatrical suffering.”
“It isn't theatrical.”
“You own one bed.”
“Yes.”
“You have a curtain.”
“Yes.”
“Put another mattress on your side.”
“I don't have another.”
“Blankets?”
“Plenty.”
“We build something tomorrow.”
Caleb looked at her.
“You've been here five minutes.”
“And already improved the plan.”
His face changed.
Almost amusement again.
“Dangerous.”
The cellar delighted her.
Potatoes.
Onions.
Beans.
Cornmeal.
Flour.
Apples.
Salt pork.
Canned tomatoes.
Jars of preserves.
And on the highest shelf:
Coffee.
Eleanor turned.
“You have coffee.”
“I have coffee.”
“Good.”
Caleb raised one eyebrow.
“Was marriage in doubt?”
“Severely.”
“I had no idea.”
“Now you know.”
That evening Eleanor cooked beans with pork and onions.
Cornbread.
Coffee.
She found a folded tablecloth in a chest.
Dusty.
Washed it.
Dried it near the stove.
Spread it over the scarred table.
When Caleb returned from checking livestock, he stopped in the doorway.
The room smelled different.
Warm.
Food.
Clean cloth.
Pine branches Eleanor had cut and placed in an empty crock.
Nothing extravagant.
Still, Caleb stared.
“What?”
Eleanor asked.