“And apparently not well enough.”
His expression became offended.
Good.
Fear had been redirected.
Eleanor continued.
“You told me the roof might collapse.”
“Yes.”
“You also have chest pain in cold weather.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I can manage.”
“No.”
“Eleanor.”
“Caleb.”
They stared.
It was the first true argument of their marriage.
Caleb appeared genuinely confused.
He had lived alone too long.
No one contradicted him because no one was there.
“I have to clear it.”
“We have to clear it.”
“You cannot climb that roof.”
Eleanor’s face hardened.
“Because I’m too heavy?”
Caleb froze.
Wrong answer territory.
He chose carefully.
“Because the slope is steep, the shingles are iced, the wind is strong enough to throw me off, and you have never climbed it.”
Good answer.
Eleanor’s anger decreased.
“A little.”
Caleb continued.
“And if I fall, you can pull me inside.”
She stared at him.
“Do you believe that?”
“Yes.”
She looked at his enormous body.
“I appreciate the confidence.”
They compromised.
Caleb climbed through the loft hatch onto the lower roof section with a rope tied around his waist.
Eleanor remained inside with the other end anchored around a support beam.
“If you fall,” she shouted, “this beam is doing the pulling.”
“Good plan.”
Wind swallowed his voice.
For twenty minutes Eleanor listened to scraping above.
Snow slid past the window in huge sheets.
Then came a heavy thud.
The rope tightened.
“Caleb!”
No answer.
She wrapped both hands around the rope.
“Caleb!”
A groan above.
Then:
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine!”
“Slipped.”
The rope loosened.
Minutes later Caleb climbed back inside.
His face was white.
Not from snow.
Pain.
Eleanor saw one hand pressed over his scar.
“Sit.”
“I need to finish.”
“You are finished.”
“There’s more—”
She shoved him toward the chair.
Caleb stared.
Eleanor pointed.
“Sit.”
He sat.
Perhaps because he was shocked she had shoved him.
Perhaps because the pain was worse than he admitted.
Eleanor unbuttoned the shirt.
The scarred area looked swollen.
The secondary rhythm was faster.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Heat.”
She moved.
Water warmed.
Cloths.
Blankets.
Caleb’s breathing became shallow.
Eleanor pressed heated fabric gently over the scar.
“How bad?”
“Five.”
“You’re lying.”
“Six.”
“Again.”
“Seven.”
She stared.
Caleb gave up.
“Eight.”
Fear hit Eleanor.
Not the strange tissue.
Losing him.
They had been married for less than one day and the possibility already mattered.
That realization frightened her almost as much as the pain.
“What else?”
“Father kept medicine.”
“Where?”
“Cabinet.”
She found bottles.
Most ancient.
One labeled for pain.
Eleanor hesitated.
“When did you last use this?”
“Years.”
“We’re not giving you something older than our marriage by twenty years.”