When Clara Whitmore opened her eyes, she was warm.
That frightened her more than the cold had.
For several seconds she could not remember where she was.
A rough wool blanket covered her to the chin. Fire crackled somewhere close, and the smell of cedar smoke mixed with coffee and damp leather.
Then memory returned.
The snow.
The barn.
Her foot catching beneath the drift.
The strange warmth spreading through her limbs.
A pair of enormous arms lifting her.
Silas Maddox.
Clara opened her eyes completely.
She was in her own bed.
Her boots were gone.
So were the soaked outer layers of her clothing, though her long cotton shift remained securely buttoned beneath the blankets.
A chair had been pulled beside the bed.
Silas sat in it.
He looked absurdly large inside the little room.
His shoulders nearly filled the back of the chair, and his knees were spread because there was not enough space between the bed and wall for him to sit normally.
His dark coat was gone.
He wore a faded cream work shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
His hat rested on the floor.
For the first time Clara could see his face clearly.
He was older than she first assumed.
Maybe thirty-eight.
Possibly forty.
Weather had carved faint lines beside his eyes, but there was nothing old about the strength in him.
Silas noticed her watching.
“You awake?”
Clara swallowed.
“My boots.”
“Near the stove.”
“My dress?”
“Drying.”
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
Silas understood.
“I did not undress you.”
Clara’s cheeks warmed.
“I wasn’t accusing you.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I woke in a bed wearing less than I remember.”
“Fair.”
Silas nodded toward the doorway.
“Jake helped get your coat off.”
Clara tried sitting.
The room tilted.
Silas stood instantly.
One hand moved toward her shoulder, then stopped several inches away.
He waited.
Clara noticed.
Only after she nodded did he steady her.
His palm nearly covered her entire upper arm.
The difference in their size was almost ridiculous.
“You fell in the snow.”
“I remember.”
“You stopped shivering.”
Clara frowned.
“Isn’t that good?”
“No.”
Silas’s expression hardened.
“That is when freezing gets dangerous.”
She looked toward the window.
Bright morning light reflected painfully from endless snow.
“How long?”
“Little over an hour.”
Clara stared.
“You carried me here?”
“Yes.”
“From the barn?”
“Halfway between.”
She looked at his shoulders again.
That explained the strange memory of being pressed against something impossibly warm.
Clara pulled the blanket higher.
“Thank you.”
Silas shrugged.
“You would have done the same.”
Clara looked at him.
“I could not carry you.”
A corner of his mouth moved.
“Probably not.”
She almost smiled.
Then a cough sounded from the other room.
Jake.
Clara immediately tried standing.
Silas put one hand in front of her.
“No.”
“He needs his medicine.”
“I gave it.”
She froze.
“What?”
“The bottle beside his bed.”
“You gave him a spoonful?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“The mark you scratched into the spoon.”
Clara stared.
Silas continued.
“Fed him too.”
“What?”
“Oatmeal.”
“You cooked?”
“I have survived this long.”
“That does not answer my question.”
He smiled.
“Boy is still alive.”
Clara pushed the blanket aside.
Silas sighed.
“Where are you going?”
“To check him.”
“You nearly froze to death an hour ago.”
“I did not nearly freeze to death.”