“And you?”
Harlon looked toward the fire.
“I wanted somebody to answer for Thomas.”
She studied him.
There was anger in his face.
But beneath it lay something deeper.
Guilt.
She recognized it.
She had spent twelve years wondering whether she should have been more attentive during her mother's final illness.
Whether she should have asked better questions.
Whether she could have done something to make Clara's life easier.
Grief often created those questions.
Even when there was no reasonable answer.
Amily leaned forward.
“Harlon.”
He looked up.
“You weren't the one who chose to build on an unstable hillside.”
His jaw tightened.
“I could've stopped him from working there.”
“How?”
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
She continued gently.
“Could you have known exactly what would happen?”
“No.”
“Could you have forced the company to listen?”
Harlon looked away.
Amily waited.
Finally, he whispered, “I don't know.”
She reached toward his hand.
Then stopped, giving him room to refuse.
He looked down.
Slowly, he turned his palm upward.
She placed her fingers in his.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Amily whispered, “You loved him.”
Harlon's eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“You still do.”
He nodded.
She squeezed his hand gently.
“Then don't let the men who ignored the warnings convince you that love should have made you all-powerful.”
Harlon stared at her.
Nobody had spoken to him that way in years.
People told him to move on.
Forgive.
Forget.
Or avenge his brother.
But Amily had done none of those things.
She had simply separated his love from his responsibility.
He lowered his head.
Then whispered, “You have a way with words.”
Amily smiled sadly.
“I've had a great deal of practice saying things nobody wanted to hear.”
For the first time that evening, Harlon laughed.
He lifted her hand.
Held it for one brief moment.
Then released it gently.
The storm continued.
But the silence between them no longer felt empty.
The next morning, Amily woke to the smell of fresh bread and coffee.
She lay beneath the enormous wool quilt, listening to the wind outside.
The cabin was warm.
Her clothes were dry.
And for one blessed moment, nothing hurt except her tired muscles.
Then she remembered the three armed men.
She sat upright.
Her gaze moved toward the door.