Then he said one word.
“Come.”
No reassurance.
No explanation.
Just command.
Clara looked at her father.
Some ridiculous part of her expected him to change his mind.
He did not even meet her eyes.
Harlan whispered:
“Clara, you don’t have to—”
Ephraim snapped:
“You planning to feed her?”
Harlan’s mouth closed.
He was not wealthy.
He had his own wife, children, stock shortages, unpaid accounts.
Clara knew.
That was how people became trapped.
Not because nobody cared.
Because caring cost something.
She stood.
Her legs nearly gave way.
She steadied herself against the barrel.
Silas saw.
His hand moved as though he intended to help.
Then stopped before touching her.
Clara noticed.
She wished she had not.
Kindness would only complicate fear.
She walked toward the door.
Ephraim still did not say her name.
At the threshold, Clara stopped.
She looked back.
“Goodbye, Father.”
He stared at the sacks Harlan was beginning to pull from storage.
“Goodbye.”
Nothing else.
Clara stepped outside.
The cold hit her lungs.
Silas followed carrying his purchases.
His horse stood beneath the overhang, enormous and nearly black.
Clara watched him tie supplies behind the saddle.
“You only have one horse.”
“Yes.”
“How am I supposed to go?”
“Behind me.”
She looked toward the road.
Snow was already thickening.
“Where?”
“My cabin.”
“How far?”
“Two hours if weather holds.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Longer.”
Silas mounted.
Then looked down at her.
Clara did not move.
His expression remained unreadable.
Finally he reached one hand.
She stared at it.
Large.
Scarred.
The hand of a man people claimed could break bones.
Her father had sold her with less hesitation than she was spending deciding whether to take it.
Silas lowered his hand.
“You can climb from stump.”
He pointed toward a chopping block.
No embarrassment.
No mockery.
Clara used the stump and mounted behind him without touching more than the back of his coat.
They left Harlan’s Crossing.
For the first half mile, Clara kept her hands pressed against the saddle behind herself.
The horse climbed steadily.
The settlement disappeared.
Pine forest swallowed the road.
Wind rose.
Clara’s fingers went numb.
The horse slipped once on packed snow.
Instinct made Clara grab Silas around the waist.
Her entire body stiffened.
He did not react.
Did not make a joke.
Did not touch her hands.
He simply kept riding.
That somehow made the contact worse.
She loosened her grip but did not let go.
The trail narrowed.
Snow struck sideways.
After perhaps an hour, Silas stopped among a stand of fir trees.
Clara’s heart immediately pounded harder.
No houses.
No road visible behind them.
No witnesses.
Silas dismounted.
Clara remained on the horse.
He turned.
For one awful second she thought:
Now.
He walked toward the saddle.
Opened a leather pack.
Removed a thick buffalo hide.
Then held it up.
“Wrap yourself.”
Clara stared.
“What?”
“Wind gets worse past ridge.”