They nearly fell together.
“Inside.”
“Horse.”
“I’ll handle horse.”
“You don’t know—”
“I know remove saddle and put animal behind door.”
Silas looked as though he might argue.
Clara snapped:
“Judge what people do after no, remember?”
He shut his mouth.
Inside, she discovered blood on his trouser leg.
Her stomach turned.
“What happened?”
“Deadfall shifted.”
“A tree?”
“Branch.”
“You said fine.”
“I’m alive.”
“That is not definition of fine.”
Clara cut fabric around wound carefully.
Not deep enough to threaten limb.
Ugly enough.
Her mother had taught her basic cleaning.
She boiled water.
Used whiskey Silas kept for trade.
He hissed.
“You have whiskey.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t drink.”
“No.”
“Why own?”
“Useful.”
She poured.
Silas swore.
Clara smiled grimly.
“Very useful.”
He looked at her.
For first time she saw him helpless.
Not completely.
Enough.
He let her bandage.
That mattered.
Men like Ephraim became angriest when vulnerable.
They turned weakness into someone else’s fault.
Silas gripped chair and endured.
When Clara finished, she said:
“You sleep in bed.”
“No.”
“You can barely stand.”
“Your bed.”
“Your cabin.”
“Your bed while here.”
Clara stared.
“Get in.”
He did.
She slept by fire.
At dawn, she woke cold and angry.
Silas was sitting up.
“You shouldn’t be there.”
Clara opened one eye.
“Where?”
“Floor.”
“Now you understand.”
“I can move.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“Lie down.”
He actually obeyed.
She smiled into blanket.
The injury forced him indoors five days.
Clara learned more about Silas during those five days than in previous three weeks.
He read Shakespeare slowly because letters sometimes blurred when tired.
He could repair almost anything with leather.
He hated onions.
He loved apples.
He owned three shirts, all gray.
He had no idea this was strange.
He carved small wooden animals when restless.
Clara found six in a drawer.
Fox.
Bear.
Horse.
Rabbit.
Two birds.
“For children?”
Silas looked embarrassed.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Hands need work.”
Clara picked up rabbit.
“It’s beautiful.”
“No.”
“It is.”
He looked away.
She kept rabbit by bed.
Silas pretended not to notice.
On the fourth evening of his recovery, Clara asked about Cheyenne story.
“Did you kill a man?”
“Yes.”
Her smile vanished.
Silas looked at her.
“You asked.”
“How?”
“Gunfight.”
“Why?”