"I'll show you your room."
She followed him upstairs.
The bedroom stood at the end of a narrow hall.
A wooden bed rested beneath a quilt.
There was a chest, a washstand, a small wardrobe, and a window overlooking the southern pasture.
Fresh linens had been placed on the bed.
A small vase of dried wildflowers stood beside the lamp.
Eleanor looked toward them.
For a moment, she seemed surprised.
"Did you do this?"
Silas followed her gaze.
He looked almost embarrassed.
"Mrs. Agnes Miller from town helped with the linens."
"And the flowers?"
He scratched his beard.
"Picked those myself."
Eleanor smiled.
"They're lovely."
He shrugged.
"Didn't know what else women liked in a room."
She laughed softly.
He looked relieved.
Then he set down her trunk.
"You'll have this room."
Eleanor turned.
"And you?"
"Across the hall."
She stared.
For a moment, he seemed to misunderstand her silence.
Silas cleared his throat.
"We're married. I know that."
He looked toward the floor.
"But we hardly know each other, and you've had a difficult day."
Eleanor's expression softened.
He continued.
"I won't ask anything of you that you're not ready to give."
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
In Boston, every decision about her future had been made without consulting her.
Her father chose her husband.
Decided which invitations she accepted.
Approved her clothing.
Managed her money.
And expected gratitude whenever she obeyed.
Now this enormous rancher, who had married her before half the town, stood awkwardly in a doorway asking nothing beyond her comfort.
She felt tears gathering.
Silas looked concerned.
"Have I said something wrong?"
Eleanor shook her head.
"No."
She smiled through tears.
"You've said something very right."
He seemed uncertain what to do with that.
Then he nodded.
"I'll get supper started."
Eleanor watched him turn.
"Silas?"
He stopped.
"Yes?"
She hesitated.
Then spoke quietly.
"Thank you for what you did at the church."
He looked toward her.
For several seconds, he seemed thoughtful.