Despite pain, Caleb laughed.
“Reasonable.”
She returned to heated cloths.
The attack lasted nearly an hour.
Gradually his breathing slowed.
The movement beneath the scar softened.
Caleb slumped back.
Eleanor remained beside him.
“You are seeing a doctor when this storm ends.”
His eyes opened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No doctors.”
She folded her arms.
Caleb saw the expression.
“Eleanor.”
“You nearly collapsed on the roof.”
“Because I overworked.”
“You have unexplained tissue moving inside your chest.”
“Explained enough.”
“No.”
“My father—”
“Your father is dead.”
The words came hard.
Caleb recoiled.
Eleanor regretted the cruelty immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked away.
“No.”
“You’re right.”
“I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“But you’re right.”
His voice became quiet.
“He’s dead.”
Eleanor sat beside him.
“He cannot protect you anymore.”
“I know.”
“And he cannot imprison you anymore.”
Caleb looked toward her.
She continued carefully.
“You have to decide which of his fears still deserve to run your life.”
He stared.
The firelight moved across his face.
Finally:
“What if the doctor is like the last one?”
“We leave.”
“What if he tells people?”
“We find someone else.”
“What if he wants to operate?”
“We say no.”
“What if it kills me?”
Eleanor swallowed.
“What if not knowing kills you?”
Silence.
Caleb looked toward the storm.
“Spring.”
“What?”
“When the pass opens.”
Eleanor nodded.
“Spring.”
It was not enough.
But it was a beginning.
The storm lasted another two days.
During the second night, the blizzard became so violent that neither slept.
The chimney clogged once.
Caleb cleared it from inside with a long iron rod while Eleanor kept wet cloths nearby in case sparks caught the roof.
The bedroom beam held.
By morning, snow reached almost to the upper windows.
They were trapped completely.
Yet the atmosphere inside the cabin felt less trapped than before.
Caleb told stories.
Small ones.
His father teaching him to track elk.
The first wolf he ever saw.
The time he fell into a frozen creek and walked home with his trousers turning stiff around his legs.
Eleanor told stories too.
Her mother hiding coins in flour jars because Eleanor’s father considered saving money unnecessary when tools existed to purchase.
Her sister burning a Christmas pudding and blaming the stove.
Henry courting her with violets and becoming irritated when she laughed too loudly in front of his friends.
That last story changed Caleb’s face.
Eleanor saw.
“What?”
“He knew you laughed like that.”
“Like what?”
“Big.”
She almost smiled.
“Henry called it unfeminine.”
Caleb looked genuinely confused.
“Why?”
Eleanor laughed again.
He smiled.
“Exactly.”