By the time the storm weakened, they had learned more about each other than many married couples learned in years.
They still slept separately.
Not because Eleanor feared him.
Because Caleb made no assumptions.
That mattered.
On the fourth morning sunlight finally appeared.
Blue sky.
Brutal cold.
Snow covered everything.
Caleb opened the cabin door and found a wall.
He dug for three hours.
Eleanor helped from inside, carrying snow away in buckets when the opening became deep enough.
When they finally stepped onto the porch, the world looked reborn.
Mountains blazed white beneath the sun.
Trees bowed.
The valley below had vanished into smooth untouched snow.
Eleanor stood beside Caleb.
His shoulder touched hers.
Neither moved away.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
Caleb looked at her.
She noticed.
“The mountains.”
“Right.”
His face colored.
Eleanor smiled.
Perhaps there were advantages to marrying an inexperienced man.
He had not learned sophisticated ways to hide affection.
They found Caleb’s father's trunk that afternoon.
It had been buried beneath old trapping blankets in the loft.
Eleanor was searching for spare lamp oil when she noticed a leather corner.
“Caleb.”
He climbed the ladder.
When he saw the trunk, his expression changed.
“That was his.”
“You’ve never opened it?”
“Not since he died.”
“Why?”
Caleb stared.
“I don’t know.”
Eleanor understood.
Some doors remained closed because opening them changed grief from memory into evidence.
“Leave it.”
She began replacing the blanket.
Caleb stopped her.
“No.”
He sat beside the trunk.
“Open it.”
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
“Apparently that no longer stops me.”
The lock had rusted.
Caleb broke it.
Inside were clothes.
A hunting knife.
Letters.
Receipts.
His mother’s tintype.
Caleb lifted it.
Eleanor saw a young woman with light eyes and dark hair seated stiffly beside a painted backdrop.
“She was beautiful.”
Caleb stared.
“I don’t remember her.”
“You can still miss her.”
“I miss the idea.”
Eleanor leaned against him gently.
Caleb placed the photograph aside.
Beneath it lay a journal.
The first entries were mundane.
Weather.
Animals.
Prices.
Then Caleb.
The boy hurt again today. Says the second beat is stronger when the temperature drops. I told him it is nothing. I lied. I do not know what to do.
Caleb’s face tightened.
They turned pages.
Doctor says surgery may help. I fear allowing it. I fear refusing more. How does a father choose what pain his child should endure?
Another.
Men came offering money. One spoke of Caleb like livestock. I nearly killed him. Caleb heard enough. He asked why anyone would pay to see him. I had no answer that would not break something.
Caleb looked away.
Eleanor touched his knee.