Clara smiled. It was a small smile, uncertain and almost reverent.
Eli felt the room tilt beneath him.
“Come inside,” he said at last.
Margaret did not move.
“Are you certain?”
“No,” he replied. “But you’re freezing.”
He stepped aside.
Clara immediately caught Margaret’s gloved hand and pulled her across the threshold, as if the matter had been settled long before her father found the courage to speak.
The door shut behind them with a heavy thud, muffling the blizzard. Warmth rose from the fire and the iron stove. The cabin smelled of pine smoke, bread, and the dried herbs that hung from the rafters. A small evergreen branch had been placed above the mantel, decorated with a red ribbon and three wooden stars Clara had carved with her father’s help.
Margaret stood awkwardly near the door, snow melting from her coat onto the floorboards.
Clara looked up at her.
“Are you going to be our Christmas guest?”
Margaret’s gaze flickered to Eli.
“If your papa allows it.”
“He does,” Clara declared.
Eli gave his daughter a look.
“I said she could come inside, not take over the house.”
Clara’s smile widened. “That’s what Mama said you would say.”
The words stopped him.
Margaret lowered her eyes.
Eli turned toward the stove, suddenly unable to look at either of them. “Clara, fetch the wool blanket from the chest. And bring the kettle.”
“Yes, Papa.”
The girl hurried away, her small boots tapping over the floorboards.
Eli took Margaret’s carpetbag from her hands. It was heavier than it looked.
“You’ve been carrying this through the storm?”
“Yes.”
“You should have left it at the station.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
She looked at the bag. “Everything I own is in it.”
He did not answer. He set it near the stove, then pulled a chair toward the hearth.
“Sit.”
Margaret hesitated before lowering herself onto it. Her shoulders sagged with relief, though she seemed determined not to show it. Eli fetched a dry towel and handed it to her.
“Your hair’s soaked.”
“Thank you.”
He turned away, giving her privacy to remove her cap and loosen her scarf. When he looked back, her dark curls had fallen around her face, damp and tangled. She seemed younger without the cap, though not less composed. Her eyes were tired, and a faint line between her brows suggested she had been holding herself upright by will alone.
Clara returned with the blanket and kettle. She placed the blanket over Margaret’s shoulders with a ceremony that made Eli’s throat tighten.
“You can use Mama’s chair,” Clara said. “She liked it best.”
Margaret glanced at the empty rocking chair beside the hearth. A folded quilt lay over its back, faded blue and white.
“I’m honored,” she replied.