That realization irritated Clara almost as much as it unsettled her.
He picked up his lantern.
"My shelter is about two miles west. Stone walls. Proper chimney. Enough wood to last until the thaw."
Clara glanced toward the window.
Snow struck the glass so violently that she could barely distinguish the trees beyond it.
"Two miles?"
"Near enough."
"Through that?"
He nodded.
She gave a disbelieving laugh.
"You must think I'm an idiot."
"No."
"Then why would you expect me to walk two miles through a blizzard?"
"Because the roof over your head is leaking, the eastern wall has shifted, and that chimney is drawing smoke into the room."
Clara glanced nervously toward the ceiling.
Elias continued.
"There's a cracked beam above the stove. If the snow keeps building, it'll come down."
She swallowed.
"How long?"
"Could be an hour. Could be six."
"And your shelter?"
"Been standing through thirty winters."
Clara looked toward the fire.
She hated the truth of what he was saying.
She hated even more that he was not using it to make her feel foolish.
He simply told her the facts and waited for her to decide.
That was unfamiliar.
For six years, her husband had made decisions for her while disguising control as concern.
Nathaniel Whitcomb chose where they lived, whom they entertained, what she wore to dinner, and which subjects were appropriate for a respectable banker's wife.
He had once corrected her in front of twelve guests because she asked why a local widow's mortgage had been transferred without notification.
"A lady should not concern herself with matters she cannot understand," he said.
The guests laughed politely.
Clara had smiled because refusing to smile would have created a scene.
Later, Nathaniel told her she had embarrassed him.
Now she stood in a freezing lodge, facing a man who apparently believed she was capable of deciding whether to trust him with her life.
The irony was almost unbearable.
"Suppose I agree," she said. "What happens when we get there?"
"You eat."
"And?"
"Warm yourself."
"And?"
"Sleep."
Clara folded her arms.
"Where?"
"There's a bed."
She stared.
"One bed?"
"One proper bed."
"And where do you sleep?"
"Wherever I please."
Her expression hardened.
Elias sighed.
"Woman, I didn't come through two miles of snow to argue about sleeping arrangements."
Clara lifted her chin.
"I have every right to ask."
"You do."