She worried about her feet.
He nearly collided with a bench.
She laughed.
He grinned.
Then they found a rhythm.
Clara looked up.
Caleb was watching her with an expression so tender that she nearly forgot the people around them.
"You're staring," she whispered.
He smiled.
"Yes."
"Why?"
He considered the question.
Then answered quietly.
"Because you're beautiful."
Clara's breath caught.
For a moment, her old instinct was to deny it.
To laugh.
To remind him of her size.
But something in his face stopped her.
He meant it.
She could see that.
So she whispered, "Thank you."
His smile deepened.
They continued dancing.
Around them, the little church glowed with lamplight.
Children whispered and giggled.
Snow moved past the windows.
And Clara Bennett, who had spent years being told she took up too much room, discovered the quiet happiness of dancing with a man who seemed delighted that she was there.
After the music ended, Caleb walked Clara home.
The snow had stopped.
Stars shone above the mountains.
The air was so cold that their breath appeared in pale clouds.
They moved carefully along the cleared path.
Caleb carried a lantern.
Clara held the edge of her cloak closed against the wind.
For a while, they spoke about the supper.
The children.
The singing.
The way Amos Pike had attempted to dance with his wife and nearly knocked over a chair.
Clara laughed at the memory.
Then the conversation softened.
Caleb looked toward the mountains.
"My mother used to love Christmas."
Clara glanced at him.
"You've mentioned her several times."
He nodded.
"She was a good woman."
"What happened to her?"
His expression changed.
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then he answered.
"She died when I was sixteen."
Clara's heart tightened.
"I'm sorry."
He nodded.
"Hard winter. Illness spread through the logging camp where we lived."
She listened.
Caleb continued.
"My father worked the timber crews. We moved with him. Some winters, we had plenty. Others, we didn't."
He looked toward the snowy road.
"Mother kept trying to feed everybody, even when she was sick herself."
Clara swallowed.
"Did you have a doctor?"
"Eventually."
He paused.
"Too late."
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Caleb said quietly, "After she died, I started thinking the best way to survive was never to need anybody."
Clara looked toward him.
He gave a sad smile.
"Worked well enough for twenty-eight years."
She reached for his hand.
He took it.
Then she asked, "And now?"
Caleb looked down at her.