“Of course.”
Eli took the child in his arms and carried her toward the cabin. Margaret followed, looking back once at the snowman.
Its crooked smile seemed to face the house.
The days after Christmas passed slowly.
The storm had blocked the trail and buried the road to town. Eli worked from dawn until dusk clearing the yard, checking the stock, and repairing the barn door. Margaret helped where she could, though he repeatedly insisted that she was a guest and should not exhaust herself.
She ignored him whenever the task was necessary.
She discovered that the kitchen stove had a temperamental draft, that the pantry shelves needed reinforcing, and that Clara had a habit of hiding half-eaten biscuits beneath the cushion of the rocking chair. She learned how Eli liked his coffee, how he sharpened the kitchen knives, and how he grew quiet whenever the wind came from the west.
Eli learned that Margaret could sew a torn coat almost invisibly, that she knew several songs Clara had never heard, and that she could make a simple meal feel like a feast by arranging it carefully on the table. He learned that she read before bed, that she disliked being praised for doing ordinary work, and that she had a way of listening that made people speak more honestly than they intended.
He also learned that she was not fragile.
On the fourth day after Christmas, she followed him to the barn and insisted on helping him repair a section of fencing that had collapsed beneath the snow. He protested that the work was heavy and the ground treacherous. She replied that she had carried coal up four flights of stairs in Philadelphia and could certainly hold a post steady.
When she slipped, he caught her by the elbow.
For one suspended moment, they stood close enough to feel each other’s breath.
Her face was flushed from the cold. A loose curl had escaped her hairpin, and her eyes were bright with exertion. Eli’s hand remained around her arm a fraction longer than necessary.
“Careful,” he said.
“I am.”
“You nearly fell.”
“Nearly.”
His gaze moved to her mouth before he could stop it.
Margaret noticed.
The air between them changed.
Eli released her and stepped back.
“I’ll get the hammer.”
She watched him walk away, her heart beating harder than the work required.
That evening, they sat beside the fire while Clara slept. The little girl had spent the day helping Margaret sort buttons, then fallen asleep halfway through a story. Eli had carried her to bed and returned to find Margaret mending a shirt.
He sat opposite her.
“You don’t have to mend my clothes.”
“I know.”
“I can do it.”
“I’ve seen your stitches.”
He gave her a look.
“They hold,” she added, “but they are not elegant.”
“Clothes aren’t supposed to be elegant. They’re supposed to keep a man warm.”
“Then perhaps I should leave them alone.”
“You can if you like.”
She smiled and threaded the needle.
He watched her for a while, then said, “You’ve been here nearly a week.”
“Yes.”
“The road may be passable in a few days.”
“I expect so.”
“If you want to go, I’ll take you to the station.”