“I mean it.”
Her voice was weak, but there was iron underneath it.
Henry stared at her for a long moment.
Then he crossed to the door and dropped the wooden bar into place instead.
They waited.
A minute.
Two.
Five.
The shadow did not return.
The horse outside whinnied again.
Then hoofbeats.
Faint at first.
Growing softer.
Moving away.
Henry returned to the window.
This time he caught the outline of a rider disappearing toward the dark trees.
He lifted the shotgun.
Too far.
Too much snow.
A useless shot.
He lowered it.
Clara whispered, “Gone?”
“For now.”
Those two words sat between them.
For now.
Henry checked every window.
Then the door.
Then the rear shutter.
Only after he was satisfied did he return to Clara.
She had closed her eyes.
Panic hit him again.
He dropped beside her.
“Clara.”
Her eyes opened.
“I’m awake.”
“Stay that way.”
“That sounded almost affectionate.”
“Don't start.”
One corner of her mouth moved.
Henry pulled another blanket over her.
His hands were still shaking.
She noticed.
“You're colder than I am.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're lying.”
“So are you.”
“About what?”
“Being fine.”
Clara looked at him for a long time.
Then said softly, “I never said I was.”
Something in Henry’s expression changed.
He reached toward her face, stopped, then finally brushed a strand of wet hair away from her cheek.
The movement was awkward.
Almost shy.
Clara's breathing caught.
Neither spoke.
The storm continued around them.
But for the first time since the smoke had filled the cabin, silence felt more dangerous.
Henry pulled his hand away.
“I need to see your feet.”
Clara blinked.
“Romance truly has entered our marriage.”
“You were in snow without proper boots.”
“I had boots.”
“House boots.”
“They were boots.”
“They were leather slippers.”
“I was occupied holding your ladder.”
Henry nearly argued.
Then he remembered why.
His anger disappeared.
He examined her feet carefully.
Cold.
But not white.
Not waxy.
No obvious frostbite.
Relief loosened his chest.
Clara watched him.
“You're very gentle for a man who speaks like an axe.”
Henry looked up.
“You complain too much for someone I just dragged through a doorway.”
“You dragged perhaps one quarter of me.”
Henry stared.
She smiled faintly.
“I remember enough to know the buffalo hide did most of the work.”
“You were unconscious.”
“I was still heavy.”
Henry almost laughed.
Then her expression changed.
“Henry.”
“Yes?”
“Who wants us dead?”
He looked at the blackened wire.
“That is what we're going to find out.”
They did not sleep.
Not properly.
Henry sat beside the stove with the shotgun across his knees.
Clara remained wrapped in blankets.
Every hour he added wood.
Every hour he checked the windows.