“Why?”
“Because feelings can be complicated.”
“Mine aren’t.”
He brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead.
“I know, sweetheart.”
“I like her.”
“I can tell.”
“She smells like snow and soap.”
“That’s a remarkable reason to like someone.”
“And she knew Mama.”
Eli’s smile faded, but Clara’s face remained open.
“Does that make you sad?” he asked.
“A little. But it makes me happy too.”
He gathered her into his arms.
For three years, he had feared that any new affection would somehow diminish Anne’s place in their lives. He had imagined that love was a room with one chair, and that to invite someone new would require removing the person who had occupied it first.
Anne’s letter had not made the pain disappear.
It had merely opened a window.
That night, the storm worsened.
Snow pressed against the cabin walls, and the wind drove hard enough to make the rafters groan. Eli checked the shutters, banked the fire, and carried an extra armful of wood into the kitchen. When he returned, Margaret was standing beside the table, carefully unfolding a small bundle of clothing from her carpetbag.
She had removed her coat and scarf. A simple dark dress hung from her shoulders, and her curls had begun to dry in soft waves around her face. She looked less like a figure emerging from the blizzard and more like a woman who might have lived in the cabin all her life.
Clara sat at the table, watching her with unblinking interest.
“Do you know how to make gingerbread?” the child asked.
Margaret looked up. “I do.”
“Mama made gingerbread at Christmas.”
“I remember.”
“Can you make it like hers?”
Margaret hesitated. “I can try.”
Clara’s expression brightened. “Papa burns it.”
“I do not burn it,” Eli protested from the doorway.
Clara turned to him. “You make it hard.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It’s hard enough to break a tooth.”
Margaret’s laugh came unexpectedly, soft and warm. Eli found himself listening to it longer than he should have.
“I’ll make it tomorrow,” she said. “If your father has molasses.”
“He does,” Clara answered. “He hides it in the pantry because he says I use too much.”
“Because you do,” Eli said.
Clara grinned.
Margaret began to arrange her belongings. There were only a few dresses, a small sewing kit, a comb, a worn Bible, and a packet of letters tied with string. She handled each item carefully, as if everything had a place and every place had been earned.
Eli noticed that she had not brought much.
“You traveled all this way with only that?” he asked.