Then paused.
“Elizabeth?”
She looked up.
It was the first time he'd used her name without a title.
Her heart gave an unexpected little movement.
“Yes?”
“If you're uncomfortable with anything, tell me.”
She nodded.
He smiled faintly.
“And you don't have to pretend to be happy.”
Then he left.
Elizabeth stood alone in the small bedroom.
For a long time, she stared toward the window.
Beyond it, the pine trees moved gently in the afternoon wind.
She heard Daniel placing cookware on the stove.
The soft crackling of the fire.
The distant sound of a horse moving in the paddock.
Nothing about the cabin resembled her old home.
And yet, for the first time in years, she wasn't wondering what expression she needed to wear when she entered the next room.
She sat on the bed.
Then began crying.
That evening, Daniel prepared stew with potatoes, carrots, and beef he'd purchased from a neighboring ranch.
Elizabeth sat at the table watching him move around the kitchen.
He worked efficiently.
Chopped vegetables.
Stirred the pot.
Checked the bread warming beside the stove.
She'd rarely seen a man cook.
Not because she believed men couldn't.
But because wealthy households divided labor so rigidly that the idea of Victor Caldwell preparing supper seemed almost absurd.
Daniel noticed her watching.
“What?”
She blushed.
“Nothing.”
He smiled.
“You look as though I'm performing some kind of unusual trick.”
She laughed despite herself.
“I'm not accustomed to men cooking.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow.
“Then you've known men who were fortunate enough to have somebody else do it.”
Elizabeth considered that.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
He returned to the stove.
“My mother taught me.”
She looked up.
“Where is she?”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“She died seven years ago.”
Elizabeth felt ashamed.
“I'm sorry.”
Daniel nodded.
“Thank you.”
For a moment, he stared toward the pot.
Then he smiled faintly.