“You were unconscious in snow.”
“I was resting.”
Silas stared.
Clara stared back.
He laughed.
Not loudly.
A deep sound that seemed too warm for the hard face.
Clara disliked how much she liked hearing it.
“I understand,” he said.
“You understand what?”
“Why that boy listens to you.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Exactly.”
She tried standing again.
Silas offered his hand.
Clara looked at it.
His palm was scarred.
Callused.
Huge.
She placed her smaller hand inside.
He pulled her upright so easily she barely felt her own weight.
Clara’s feet reached the floor.
Her knees immediately weakened.
Silas caught her at the waist.
She landed against his chest.
Both went still.
Clara’s palms rested against him.
Solid.
Warm.
Much too close.
Silas looked down.
His hands remained at her waist but did not tighten.
“You all right?”
Clara became acutely aware that her shift was thin.
And that his chest was approximately three inches from her face.
“Yes.”
She did not move.
Neither did he.
Silas’s voice lowered.
“You sure?”
“No.”
He smiled slightly.
Clara stepped back.
Too quickly.
Her legs nearly failed again.
Silas caught her elbow.
“Perhaps pride can wait five minutes.”
“My pride has kept me alive.”
“Then it can sit in a chair while the rest of you recovers.”
Clara glared.
He pointed toward the bed.
She sat.
Mostly because arguing required energy she did not possess.
Silas handed her a cup of coffee.
Clara smelled it.
“You used the last of my coffee.”
“Yes.”
“That was supposed to last until Christmas.”
“Then Christmas came early.”
She stared.
Silas drank from his own cup.
“Terrible coffee.”
Clara nearly threw hers at him.
Instead she drank.
It was terrible.
Warm enough that she did not care.
Jake appeared in the doorway ten minutes later.
The boy looked pale.
Too thin.
Brown hair fell across his forehead.
He wore a blanket around his shoulders.
“Clara?”
She opened both arms.
Jake crossed the room.
Silas moved away while Clara hugged him.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
Jake coughed against her shoulder.
“You were out in snow.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
“I’m older.”
Jake looked toward Silas.
“Is that a real rule?”
Silas considered.
“No.”
Clara glared at both.
“This arrangement is ending immediately.”
Jake smiled faintly.
His cough returned.
Clara’s amusement vanished.
She touched his forehead.
Still warm.
Not worse.
Thank God.
Silas watched her face.
“How long has he been sick?”
“Six days.”
“Doctor?”
Clara looked down.
Jake noticed.
“I’m better.”
Clara forced a smile.
“You will be.”
Silas said nothing.
But his eyes moved around the room.
The almost empty medicine bottle.
The thin blankets.
The shelf containing two jars of beans and half a sack of flour.
The boots beside Clara’s bed with worn leather around the soles.
Silas saw poverty the way experienced men saw weather.
Not from what was present.
From what was missing.