“Every day.”
“What does he look like?”
“Bright blue. Black markings around the wings. Loud enough to wake the dead.”
She laughed softly. “I would like to see him.”
“You will, when the storm clears.”
“Does he have a name?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I never thought to name a bird.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“What would you call him?”
Josie considered. “Mr. Blue.”
Caleb gave a quiet chuckle. “That's a terrible name.”
“It is a perfectly respectable name.”
“Then Mr. Blue it is.”
She smiled, and some of the tension left her face.
He told her about the creek below the ridge, where trout gathered beneath the overhanging roots in summer. He described the first snowfall of the year, when the entire valley seemed to become silent, and the way the mountains glowed pink at sunrise when the clouds broke apart. He spoke of the old trail that crossed the eastern pass and the abandoned mining camp where a family of foxes had made a den.
Josie listened, imagining a world beyond the cabin that was not defined by fear or obligation.
When his voice grew quiet, she asked, “Do you think I could learn to ride well?”
“Certainly.”
“I fell off the horse twice on the journey here.”
“I remember.”
“You didn't laugh.”
“I didn't think it was funny.”
“I did, afterward.”
“You were bruised.”
“I was embarrassed.”
“You were learning.”
She looked down at their hands. “I want to learn more things.”
“Then we'll find the time.”
“I want to cook something other than stew.”
“We can manage that.”
“I want to read again. I left my books in Chicago.”
“We can order some from town.”
“And I want to see the valley in spring.”
Caleb smiled. “That's a good list.”
“Do you think I'm foolish?”
“No.”