“Why?”
“Because poor women learn quickly that wealthy men sometimes mistake gratitude for ownership.”
His face hardened.
“I don't own you.”
“I know.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because I need to know you know.”
Caleb looked directly at her.
“I do.”
Bee nodded.
“Good.”
She took her satchel upstairs to the small guest room.
Caleb remained in the kitchen.
Alone.
But for the first time in years, he found the quiet unbearable.
Bee slept three hours.
At five fifteen, she woke.
Snow had stopped.
Sky beginning to lighten.
She dressed.
Packed her cast iron.
Folded her apron.
Then stood in the guest room looking around.
Ridiculous.
She had been there one night.
Why did leaving feel like something larger?
Seventy-five dollars waited downstairs.
Enough to pay two months of debt.
Maybe three.
She could repair the cabin roof.
Buy flour wholesale.
Perhaps survive winter.
That was what mattered.
Not Caleb Whitmore's eyes.
Not the way he laughed.
Not his enormous lonely house.
Bee lifted her satchel.
Walked downstairs.
The kitchen was quiet.
Fire low.
Caleb stood near the table.
Already awake.
Black fur-lined coat open over his bare chest because apparently he had abandoned concern for ordinary clothing sometime during the night.
Bee stopped.
“You sleep like that?”
“I didn't sleep.”
“That explains the poor decision.”
“What?”
“The coat.”
He looked down.
“I was outside.”
“In November?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Bee set down one cast-iron pan.
Caleb looked at the packed bags.
“You're leaving.”
“Yes.”
“The road is still icy.”
“I can wait until full light.”
“I'll drive you.”
“You don't have to.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
He held a small red onion stolen from her cutting board.
Bee frowned.
“You're holding an onion.”
“I was thinking.”
“With produce?”
“It was there.”
She smiled.
Caleb's gaze lingered.
The smile disappeared from her face slowly.
Not because she was unhappy.
Because his expression was too open.
No businessman's mask.
No mountain tycoon.
Just a man who did not want her to leave and did not know how to ask.
Bee turned toward the roast.
“There's enough meat for breakfast.”
“I don't care about breakfast.”
“You should.”
“Bee.”
She began slicing.
He stepped closer.
“You've been staring at me long enough to burn a hole through this dress, Mr. Whitmore.”
“I’m trying to decide what this house is going to sound like after you leave.”
Her knife slowed.
“Cold men shouldn't get attached to warm kitchens after one night.”
Caleb looked at her.
“I wasn't cold until you showed me the difference.”
Bee stopped cutting.
Damn him.
That was too good.
She turned slowly.
“Did you practice that outside?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping it sounded accidental.”
His mouth moved.
Bee looked toward her satchel.
Then back at him.
“You hired me for dinner.”
“I know.”
“I finished the dinner.”
“I know.”
“You paid me.”
“I haven't yet.”
“You will.”
“I will.”
“Then our agreement is finished.”
Caleb's expression tightened.
“Yes.”
Bee picked up the satchel.
Caleb reached for it.
Not her.
The bag.
He took it gently and placed it back on the table.
Bee stared.
“Caleb.”
First time she used his name.
He noticed.
She noticed him noticing.
“Don't make this complicated.”
“It already is.”
“How?”
He looked around.
The kitchen.
Fire.
Bread rack.
Pine herbs she hung to dry.
Then at her.
“Yesterday morning this house was a place where I stored myself between business meetings.”
Bee swallowed.
“You were here twelve hours.”
“And now it feels like a home.”
Silence.
Bee's heart beat painfully.
“That's hunger and fireplace heat talking.”
“No.”
“Loneliness makes men foolish.”
“Yes.”
She blinked.
Caleb continued.
“I know exactly what loneliness does.”
“That's why I'm trying not to make this about needing someone.”
Bee looked at him.
“Then what is it about?”
“You.”
Simple.
No poetry.
That made it worse.
Caleb stepped closer.
“Your laugh.”
“The way you insult my pantry.”
“Your bread.”
“Your temper.”
“The way you looked at Pendleton and saw what I didn't.”
“The way you told me not to negotiate like a desperate man when you were the one facing winter with twelve dollars.”
Bee's eyes burned.
“You've known me one night.”
“I know.”
“That isn't enough.”
“No.”
“Then what are you asking?”
Caleb took a breath.
Not an order.
Not a contract.
Not ownership.
“Stay with me.”
Bee froze.
Three words.
Nothing else.
Stay with me.
Not cook for me.
Work for me.
Marry me.
Belong to me.
Stay.
With.
Me.
Bee's throat tightened.
“For how long?”
Caleb looked almost surprised.
“I don't know.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“Honest one.”
She stared.
“Under what arrangement?”
His mouth twitched.
“There she is.”
“Caleb.”
“Your terms.”
Bee blinked.
“What?”
“If you stay, you choose the arrangement.”
“Salary if you work.”
“Separate room.”
“Your own money.”
“You can leave whenever you want.”
“You don't owe me marriage.”
“You don't owe me your bed.”
“You don't owe me gratitude.”
Bee's eyes filled.
Caleb continued:
“If tomorrow you decide I’m unbearable, I take you home.”
“If next week you decide the mountain is too lonely, I take you home.”
“If you stay a year and leave, the year was still yours.”
Bee looked down.
No one had ever offered her freedom inside an invitation.
Usually people offered security in exchange for control.
Caleb offered security with an exit.
She whispered:
“What would I do here?”
“Whatever you want.”
“That's not employment.”
“Then choose employment.”
“Cook?”
“If you want.”
“Manage the household?”
“If you want.”
“Tell you when you're being unbearable?”
“I suspect you'll do that without wages.”
Bee laughed through tears.
Caleb smiled.
“Seventy-five dollars a month.”
Her laughter stopped.
“What?”