“He is kind.”
Eliza said:
“I don’t love him.”
“That simple?”
“Yes.”
Clara almost argued about security.
Then stopped.
Eliza smiled knowingly.
“You remembered?”
Clara sighed.
“I hate raising children with principles.”
Silas laughed for days.
Eliza married no one until thirty-six, when she met widowed veterinarian with a daughter.
Clara loved him because he asked questions.
Silas distrusted because all fathers distrust.
Eventually approved.
Their granddaughter became another reason mountain house expanded.
By seventy, Clara and Silas moved slower.
He no longer trapped.
She no longer kept Harlan’s accounts.
They tended garden.
Stocked shelter.
Argued about coffee.
Silas finally learned to roast beans better.
Clara refused admit.
One morning he served a cup.
She drank.
Said nothing.
Silas watched.
“Well?”
“Acceptable.”
He stared.
“That is greatest praise in fifty years.”
“Don’t become proud.”
Too late.
They sat porch watching snow.
Silas said:
“Do you ever think about day?”
Clara knew.
“Harlan’s?”
“Yes.”
“Less.”
“Me too.”
“Do you regret taking me?”
Silas’s face tightened.
“Yes.”
Clara looked.
“Even now?”
“Yes.”
“If I could go back, I’d ask first.”
“What if I said no?”
“I’d give letter.”
“Pay debt?”
“Probably.”
“Then leave?”
“If you wanted.”
Clara took his hand.
“You wouldn’t have had me.”
“No.”
“Does that hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Still would change?”
“Yes.”
Clara leaned against shoulder.
“That is why I stayed.”
Silas closed his eyes.
At seventy-four, Silas became ill.
Heart.
Not sudden.
Slow.
He tired easily.
Clara hated.
He hated more.
One afternoon he tried splitting wood.
Collapsed to one knee.
Clara ran.
“You fool.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are seventy-four-year-old liar.”
He laughed weakly.
Their son Jonah came to stay.
Silas resented.
Then accepted.
He spent last winter mostly by fire.
Clara sat beside reading.
Sometimes no words.
Just presence.
One evening a blizzard rolled through.
The same kind that had nearly killed Silas twelve years before he took Clara from Harlan’s.
He listened to wind.
“Shelter stocked?”
“Yes.”
“Blankets?”
“Four now.”
“Flour?”
“Sixty pounds.”
“Coffee?”
“Good coffee.”
He smiled.
“You fixed.”
“We fixed.”
Silas looked at Clara.
“I never paid debt to your mother.”
Clara frowned.
“You kept promise.”