“You cannot keep me here.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re blocking the door.”
“Because if you walk through it in your condition, I’ll have to carry you back.”
She blinked.
He continued:
“And I’ve already done that once.”
Silence.
“What is your name?”
she asked.
“Caleb.”
“Caleb what?”
“Morgan.”
Everything changed.
The woman went perfectly still.
Caleb noticed.
“What?”
She stared at him.
“Say it again.”
“My name?”
“Yes.”
“Caleb Morgan.”
Her face lost what little color it had regained.
One hand moved instinctively toward her chest.
“Do you know me?”
Caleb asked.
“No.”
“Then why did my name scare you?”
“It didn’t.”
“Bad lie.”
She looked away.
Caleb waited.
The woman whispered:
“My name is Eliza Hart.”
“Is that true?”
Her eyes flashed.
“Yes.”
“You hesitated.”
“I am exhausted.”
“Still a hesitation.”
“Do you question every injured woman you drag out of snow?”
“First one.”
She almost smiled.
Then the smaller twin cried.
Eliza immediately tried to stand.
Caleb held up one hand.
“I’ll bring her.”
“I can hold my own child.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
He lifted the baby carefully.
Over four days he had learned more quickly than he liked admitting.
Support the head.
Keep the blanket snug.
Expect astonishing noise from astonishingly small lungs.
He carried the infant to Eliza.
She took the little girl.
Her whole face changed.
Caleb looked away.
Some moments felt private even when there was nowhere else to stand.
Eliza kissed her daughter’s forehead.
“My sweet Ruth.”
Caleb glanced back.
“Ruth?”
“Yes.”
“And the other?”
“Rose.”
Caleb nodded.
“Ruth and Rose.”
Eliza looked at him.
“You remembered which one is which?”
“Rose screams louder.”
For the first time, Eliza smiled properly.
It transformed her.
Caleb suddenly understood she was beautiful.
He disliked noticing.
He returned to stove.
Eliza fed Ruth slowly using cloth and milk.
Then her fingers brushed something inside blanket.
A chain.
Caleb saw silver.
Eliza quickly tucked it away.
Too quickly.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Caleb turned.
“Eliza.”
“Please.”
He stopped.
Something in her voice made him.
“Please don't ask me yet.”
He looked toward her.
She held infant against her.
Fear returned.
Not fear of him.
Fear of what an answer might cause.
Caleb nodded once.
“All right.”
She looked surprised.
“You’re not going to demand it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if I wanted to frighten you, I could’ve left you outside.”
Her eyes lowered.
“Thank you.”
Caleb turned back toward fire.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Three more days passed.
Eliza improved slowly.
She could walk from bed to stove.
Could hold both daughters.
Could eat without shaking.
Caleb built a proper cradle from pine boards.
Eliza watched from chair.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“They can sleep in box.”
“They’re growing.”
“They are seven days old.”
“They’re already taking over house.”
She smiled.
Caleb focused on plane.
He had not smiled as much in ten years as he had in one week.
That bothered him.