“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“You could help me.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You could say it wasn’t that bad.”
“Why would I?”
He looked away.
“Right.”
Clara crossed her arms.
Silas continued.
“When my granddaughter came here hungry…”
His voice broke.
He cleared throat.
“I thought about market.”
“Those chickens.”
“You carrying that crate.”
“Us laughing.”
He looked at her.
“I don’t expect forgiveness.”
“Good.”
He blinked.
Clara continued.
“An apology is not a trade.”
“You don’t give me words and receive forgiveness as payment.”
He nodded slowly.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying.”
Clara softened slightly.
“That is enough today.”
He put hat back.
Before leaving, he said:
“My south barn still stands.”
“Roof strong.”
“Could store supplies.”
Clara nodded.
“Tell Caleb.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
Silas became useful after that.
Not transformed into saint.
He still complained.
Still tried to argue portions.
Still thought his ideas best.
But he worked.
Every morning.
Cut wood.
Cleared snow.
Helped reinforce roofs.
And stopped laughing.
Caleb slept mostly at Clara’s cabin after the sled arrived.
Not in her bed.
On a pallet near fire.
She did not ask.
He did not assume.
The first night, Clara came downstairs before dawn and found him sitting awake.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re awake.”
“So are you.”
“I asked first.”
He looked at fire.
“I’m listening to roof.”
“It’s fine.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
He shrugged.
Clara sat beside him.
Their shoulders almost touched.
Caleb said:
“I meant what I said.”
She knew.
“About winter?”
“Yes.”
“You’re choosing terrible time.”
“Apparently.”
“I have fifty people to feed.”
“Exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“You look beautiful when angry at flour.”
She stared.
He smiled.
Clara elbowed him.
He laughed quietly.
Then he became serious.
“I don’t need answer now.”
She looked at fire.
“I’m afraid.”
“Of me?”