"It's beautiful."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Not what most people say."
"What do they say?"
He shrugged.
"Too small. Too far from town. Too much stone."
She looked toward the warm fire.
Then at the books.
The carefully stacked wood.
The polished table.
The clean sheets.
"I think it's lovely."
Elias stopped moving.
For a moment, his expression softened.
Then he turned away to feed the stove.
"Glad somebody does."
Clara slept for almost fourteen hours.
When she woke, sunlight streamed through the little window.
The blizzard had stopped.
Beyond the glass, snow-covered pines glittered beneath an impossibly blue sky.
For several seconds, she did not know where she was.
Then she remembered.
The hunting lodge.
The enormous stranger.
The freezing ride.
The shelter built into the rock.
She sat up quickly.
A thick quilt slipped from her shoulders.
Her boots stood beside the stove, cleaned and drying.
Her injured feet had been wrapped in fresh bandages.
Someone had placed a cup of water on the bedside table.
And her burgundy shawl hung neatly across the back of a chair.
Clara looked around.
Elias was nowhere in sight.
She heard a faint metallic sound from outside.
Then footsteps.
The door opened.
Elias entered carrying a basket of split wood.
His hair was damp from melting snow, and he had changed into a fresh cream-colored shirt.
He stopped when he saw her awake.
"Morning."
Clara blinked.
"Is it morning?"
He glanced toward the window.
"Near noon, actually."
Her eyes widened.
"Noon?"
"You needed sleep."
She looked down at her bandaged feet.
"Did you...?"
He followed her gaze.
"Changed the dressings while you were awake last night. You asked me to check them again before you settled. Don't you remember?"
A faint memory returned.
She had been sitting beside the fire.
He had handed her warm broth.
She remembered nodding while he examined one heel.
Then nothing.
Clara looked toward the fireplace.
"Where did you sleep?"
He pointed toward the enormous chair.
"Over there."
She stared.
"All night?"
"Long enough."
"That can't be comfortable."
He shrugged.
"Comfortable enough."
Clara looked at the chair again.
Then at him.
Something about his casual acceptance of inconvenience irritated her.
"You shouldn't have done that."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Done what?"
"Given me your bed."
"Why not?"
"Because it's yours."
He set down the basket.
"Clara, I've slept on rock shelves, frozen ground, and once inside the hollow of a fallen tree because a bear took an interest in my camp."