“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
Amos stared.
She hesitated.
“Didn’t you?”
“No.”
Silence.
Lavinia looked toward the shelf.
A small wooden box sat near Amos’s tools.
Burned into the side:
A. VALE.
She pointed.
“That.”
Amos exhaled.
“You observe too much.”
“I’ve been accused.”
“By your husband?”
“I don’t have one.”
Amos looked back to coffee.
“Father?”
“Dead.”
His shoulders tightened.
She saw.
“When?”
he asked.
“Five months ago.”
“How?”
“Heart failure.”
Amos gave a humorless grunt.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Mr. Vale.”
“Amos.”
“What?”
“If you’re staying under my roof, stop calling me mister.”
“Fine.”
She moved closer.
“Amos.”
He looked at her.
“You know Beaumont.”
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“I react to plenty.”
“You are not particularly expressive.”
“That sounded like insult.”
“It was observation.”
“Worse.”
Lavinia folded her arms.
“My father was Charles Beaumont.”
The coffee cup stopped halfway to Amos’s mouth.
That was answer enough.
Lavinia whispered:
“You knew him.”
Amos set the cup down.
“Get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Your clothes are dry.”
“That does not answer me.”
“You ask too many questions for someone stranded in my cabin.”
“And you lie badly for someone who lives alone.”
Amos stared.
She did not look away.
Finally:
“I knew of him.”
“From where?”
“Railroad.”
Lavinia became still.
“My father owned Beaumont Continental Rail.”
“I know.”
“You said you only knew of him.”
“I did.”
“Then why does hearing his first name make you look like you want to break something?”
Amos turned away.
“Dress.”
She caught his wrist.
He froze.
The contact was slight.
Bare fingers against rough skin.
But his whole body reacted.
Lavinia released him immediately.
“Sorry.”
Amos stared at the place she had touched.
“I told you.”
“What?”
“Twenty-three years.”
Her expression softened again.
“Why?”
He stepped away.
“That question will get you nothing.”
“For now?”
“For ever.”
Three days became four.
The storm moved slower than Amos predicted.
They settled into an uneasy rhythm.
Lavinia cooked breakfast badly.
Amos ate it anyway.
She noticed.
“You hate it.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you eating?”
“Food.”
“That is your argument?”
“Strong one.”
She threw a piece of bread at him.
It struck his shoulder.
Amos stared.
Lavinia immediately regretted it.
Then he picked it up and ate it.
She laughed for the first time.
The sound changed the cabin.
Amos hated that.
And wanted to hear it again.
He taught her how to split kindling.
She nearly buried the hatchet in the chopping block.