She almost smiled.
“What if I stay tonight?”
“You stay.”
“What do you expect?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“You gave forty dollars.”
“More.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“How much?”
“Your father’s debt plus supplies.”
“How much?”
“Sixty-three.”
Clara stared.
“That is more money than I have seen in my life.”
Silas shrugged.
“It’s money.”
“No.”
“To you, perhaps.”
He was quiet.
Clara continued.
“You spent sixty-three dollars and expect nothing.”
“I spent it to make sure Ephraim had no claim that you left him dying.”
“That still benefits me.”
“Yes.”
“So I owe?”
“No.”
She searched his face.
“You really believe that.”
“Yes.”
Clara looked toward the bed.
“Where do you sleep?”
He pointed to bedroll.
“Near fire.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Same.”
“For how long?”
“As long as you stay.”
Clara shook her head.
“You can’t sleep on floor forever.”
Silas’s mouth moved slightly.
“Then eventually I build another bed.”
The answer made something inside her loosen.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But enough to breathe.
She slept badly.
Still slept.
The storm lasted four days.
For the first two, Clara barely spoke.
Silas did not press.
He gave her work because she asked.
She peeled potatoes.
Mended a shirt.
Swept.
Fed chickens in small covered coop.
She discovered the mountain man owned chickens.
That fact amused her more than it should.
“You don’t look like a chicken man.”
Silas frowned.
“What does chicken man look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how am I wrong?”
Clara stared.
“You argue strangely.”
“You began.”
By the third day, hunger stopped controlling every thought.
That change frightened her.
For months she had measured time by meals.
Could she save half for tomorrow?
Was there enough flour for breakfast?
Would Ephraim drink the money meant for salt?
Now Silas put food on table without counting her bites.
At first Clara hid pieces of bread in the pocket of her dress.
She hated herself for it.
On the third evening, Silas found a heel of bread when he picked up her shawl after it slipped.
He looked at it.
Then at her.
Clara felt shame burn through her.
“I was saving.”
Silas placed the bread back inside her pocket.
“Good place.”
That was all.
The next morning he left a small cloth sack beside her bed.
Inside were biscuits.
Clara stared at him.
“For what?”
“You keep food.”
“So?”
“Keep something that won’t turn pocket greasy.”
She almost cried again.
Instead she said:
“Your biscuits are hard.”
“Last longer.”
“They could break a tooth.”
“Then soak.”
The storm finally broke.
Sun came out over endless white.
Silas saddled the horse.
Then entered.
“Road down still bad.”
Clara looked up from her mother’s letter.
“How bad?”
“You can go if you want.”