He looked toward Clara.
“What town?”
“Silver Creek.”
“Doctor there?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Clara’s expression hardened.
“We don’t need your money.”
“I asked what the doctor costs.”
“We don’t need your money.”
Jake looked between them.
Silas rested his forearms on his knees.
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
“Clara.”
His eyebrow rose.
“If you’re going to irritate me, you can use my name.”
“Clara.”
Something about hearing it in his deep voice felt unnecessarily intimate.
Silas continued.
“Boy needs a doctor.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have money.”
Her face became hot.
“That is not your concern.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“But it is true.”
Clara stood too quickly.
This time anger kept her steady.
“You slept in my barn because I allowed it.”
“Yes.”
“I did not invite you to count my flour.”
“No.”
“I did not ask you to inspect my boots.”
“No.”
“And I certainly did not ask you to decide what I can afford.”
Silas looked up at her.
“You’re right.”
The immediate agreement stole half her anger.
Clara folded her arms.
Silas stood.
Slowly, because when he rose quickly he seemed even larger.
“I’m sorry.”
She stared.
Men Clara knew did not apologize easily.
Thomas never had.
Not once.
Even when clearly wrong, her late husband found ways to explain why the mistake had happened because somebody else failed first.
Silas simply said it.
No justification.
No defense.
Clara nodded stiffly.
“Thank you.”
Silas put on his coat.
“I’ll leave after I clear your path to the barn.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He looked toward Jake.
“Because snow is waist-high and apparently you’re determined to walk through it.”
Jake laughed and coughed.
Silas opened the door.
Clara followed him with her eyes.
Something about him bothered her.
Not danger.
That might have been easier.
Kindness bothered her more.
She knew what to do with dangerous men.
Lock doors.
Carry rifles.
Keep distance.
She had no strategy for a man who could lift her from snow, cook for a sick child, apologize when corrected, then leave without asking to be thanked.
Silas spent three hours clearing paths.
He found an old wooden shovel leaning behind the barn.
The handle was too short for him.
He used it anyway.
Clara watched from the window despite telling herself repeatedly that she was checking weather.
Jake sat beside her.
“He’s enormous.”
Clara pretended not to hear.
Jake continued.
“Do you think he’s taller than the church door?”
“No.”
“He had to duck entering.”
“That door is low.”
“He carried you.”
“So you’ve told me.”
“Like this.”
Jake mimed lifting something.
Clara turned.
“Why are you so interested?”
Jake shrugged.
“No one carries you.”
The words landed quietly.
Clara looked back toward the window.
Silas drove the shovel beneath another section of snow.
No.
Nobody carried Clara.
People leaned on her.
That was different.
By noon, a narrow trail ran from cabin to barn.
Silas checked his horse.
The gelding had recovered enough to stand comfortably but not enough for a long ride through deep snow.
Clara noticed.
“You can’t leave.”
Silas turned.
“I thought you wanted me gone.”
“I want you gone without finding your horse dead two miles east.”
He looked toward the animal.
“Storm took more out of him than I thought.”
Clara sighed.
“The barn is yours until the roads clear.”