Started stew.
Forgot salt.
At five she stood beside the window.
At six she lit another lamp.
At seven she put on Caleb’s spare coat.
Too large even for her.
She went to the porch.
Wind hit hard.
Nothing on the trail.
At eight, fear became anger.
“Idiot.”
She said it aloud.
“Absolute mountain idiot.”
At eight-twenty the barn horse whinnied.
Eleanor ran outside.
Caleb appeared through the snow leading his horse.
One side of his face was coated in ice.
He limped.
Eleanor rushed forward.
“Inside.”
“I need to stable—”
“I said inside.”
He looked at her.
Then, remarkably, obeyed.
She pushed him into the chair.
Removed gloves.
His fingers were dangerously cold.
“Water.”
“Eleanor—”
“Stop speaking.”
She heated water.
Wrapped his hands.
Removed ice from his beard.
Caleb went still.
Her fingers touched his face.
His eyes lifted.
The room changed.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
“You were worried.”
“I was practical.”
“Eleanor.”
She kept working.
“Your cheek is numb.”
“You were worried.”
Her hands stopped.
“Yes.”
Their eyes met.
Caleb’s voice lowered.
“I’m sorry.”
“For the storm?”
“For making you wonder if I was coming back.”
That sentence reached somewhere she had kept closed since her father died.
She resumed removing ice because looking at Caleb became too difficult.
“You’re home now.”
The word home hung between them.
Neither commented.
Three days later Fletcher Rutherford arrived.
He wore a fitted wool coat.
Fine boots.
Gloves without a single work stain.
His horse probably cost more than Eleanor had earned in five years.
Caleb’s expression changed the moment he saw him.
“What?”
Eleanor whispered.
“Rutherford.”
“The duplicate freight man?”
“His brother owns the company.”
“Interesting.”
“Not usually.”
Fletcher dismounted.
“Caleb.”
“Fletcher.”
His eyes moved toward Eleanor.
Slowly.
Assessing.
Too slowly.
Eleanor knew that look too.
“So this is the wife.”
Caleb stepped closer to her.
Not in front.
Beside.
“My wife runs my household, manages the accounts, and her name is recorded at the county office.”
Fletcher smiled.
“Touchy.”
“Accurate.”
Fletcher looked at Eleanor.
“Mrs. Morgan.”
“For three weeks, yes.”
Caleb glanced at her.
Fletcher noticed.
Dangerous.
His smile widened.
“How romantic.”
Eleanor understood her mistake immediately.
Real wives did not count weeks aloud.
Fletcher handed Caleb a folded notice.
“Spring review moved to March first.”
Caleb read.
“That’s two weeks early.”
“County board decision.”
“Whose request?”
Fletcher’s smile answered.
He turned toward Eleanor.
“I’m sure you two won't have trouble demonstrating a genuine marriage.”
Eleanor’s skin chilled.
“What does that mean?”
“Consolidated has challenged the household condition.”
Caleb’s jaw hardened.
“On what grounds?”
“Fraud.”
Fletcher looked between them.
“They say the marriage exists solely to defeat the purchase option.”
Technically true.