She was thanking him for being considered.
That evening, she placed the box beside her sewing materials and kept opening the lid, smiling to herself whenever she thought he wasn't watching.
Caleb saw.
And each time, something in his chest softened.
The greatest change came when he began waiting for her before eating.
At first, she'd served his supper and returned to the stove to finish her own tasks. Caleb assumed that was how she preferred to work. Then one evening, he noticed she was still standing after he'd begun eating.
"Where's your plate?"
She looked surprised.
"I'll eat later."
"Why?"
"There are things to finish."
He set down his fork.
"They can wait."
Martha stared.
Caleb pulled out the chair across from him.
"Sit."
She hesitated, and he immediately recognized how much the command sounded like an order. He softened his voice.
"Would you join me?"
Martha looked toward the chair.
Then she smiled.
"Yes. I'd like that."
They ate together.
At first, conversation came slowly.
Caleb asked about Missouri. Martha spoke about the countryside, her mother's cooking, and the little church where she learned to read. She described summer thunderstorms, fields of wildflowers, and the smell of fresh bread outside a bakery she'd passed every morning on her way to work.
Caleb told her about the mountains.
He described surviving his first winter, learning how to track animals, and the old trapper who taught him to repair tools with almost nothing.
He also told her about the family he'd left behind.
Not much.
Only that his father had died years earlier and that he hadn't seen his relatives in a long time.
Martha noticed the way his expression hardened whenever the subject came up.
She didn't ask why.
She understood what it meant to carry memories that were difficult to explain.
And in that understanding, something fragile began growing between them.
Not love yet.
Not trust completely.
But the possibility of both.
One afternoon, a small boy arrived at the cabin leading a tired mule.
He was twelve, with a narrow face and a scarf pulled high over his ears. His father worked at a nearby ranch, and he'd been sent to bring a message about a damaged bridge crossing the lower creek.
Caleb invited him inside to warm himself.
Martha immediately prepared a bowl of stew.
The boy stared at her.
Then at the bowl.
"That's a lot, ma'am."
She smiled.
"You look hungry."
He hesitated.
Then he whispered, "We haven't had meat in two days."
Martha's expression softened.
She set a second piece of bread beside his bowl and made no comment about his family's circumstances.
The boy ate quickly.
When he finished, Caleb asked about the bridge. The child explained that melting snow had weakened part of the support and that his father feared a wagon might break through before repairs could be made.