They spent an entire day repairing it.
Clara held the ladder.
Elias worked above.
“Left.”
“My left?”
“There is only one left.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“Elias.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Snow slid off the roof onto Clara.
He laughed.
She threw a handful upward.
It struck him in the face.
He stared down.
Clara realized perhaps attacking a large mountain man from below was strategically poor.
Elias climbed down.
Slowly.
She backed away.
“You wouldn't.”
He scooped snow.
“Wouldn't what?”
“Elias.”
She ran.
He caught her near the woodpile.
Clara shrieked laughing.
His arms wrapped around her waist.
For one second, they lost balance.
They fell into soft snow.
Elias landed beside her.
Both breathless.
Clara's hair came loose.
Dark strands spread across the white ground.
Elias stopped laughing.
His eyes moved over her face.
Clara's smile faded.
He touched one strand.
“You’re staring again.”
“Yes.”
Her old fear returned immediately.
The stagecoach.
The road.
That first unbearable pause.
Clara looked away.
Elias noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Clara.”
She sat up.
“Roof.”
He knew she was lying.
He let her go.
That evening she caught him watching her again while she brushed her hair.
He turned away.
Clara’s insecurity, dormant for months, returned stronger.
Maybe Elias was trying to convince himself.
Maybe affection made him kind but not attracted.
Maybe the kisses were duty.
Maybe desire had limits he was too decent to confess.
The fear embarrassed her.
She said nothing.
Silence allowed it to grow.
By March, Elias knew something was wrong.
Clara still worked.
Still read.
Still teased him.
But she stopped initiating kisses.
Stopped sitting close.
Stopped wearing her hair loose in the evening.
He waited a week.
Then another.
Finally he asked.
“Did I do something?”
Clara looked up from the ledger.
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“That accusation seems popular in this household.”
“Because you're bad at it.”
She closed the book.
“I’m tired.”
“You're avoiding me.”
“I am sitting three feet away.”
“You know what I mean.”
Clara stood.
“Do I?”
Elias frowned.
She immediately regretted the sharpness.
He looked wounded.
That made her angrier at herself.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Clara.”
“Good night.”