Sarah held his gaze. Let him see the steel in her. Do you want a wife or do you just want another winter alone? The question hit him like she'd slapped him. She saw it in the way his whole body tensed, in the way his breath caught, in the way those cold eyes suddenly weren't cold at all, but burning with something that might have been anger or might have been fear.

That's none of your business. Maybe not, but it's the question you need to answer. Sarah didn't back down. I'm not asking to be your wife, Mr. Monroe.

I'm not asking for love or romance or promises. I'm asking for a roof over my children's heads and a chance to earn our keep. That's all. If that's all, then the question you asked. The question I asked is the same one you've been avoiding for 10 years.

Sarah's voice softened but didn't waver. Every woman in this county has tried to give you what they thought you wanted. Charm, beauty, home cooking, whatever they imagined would thaw your frozen heart. and you turned them all down because none of them asked the right question, which is, "What do you actually need?" The silence stretched between them around them. Silver Creek went on with its business.

Men walking to the saloon, women shopping at the store, children chasing each other through the muddy street. None of them paying attention to the standoff happening right in front of them. "You don't know me," Caleb said finally. His voice was rougher. Now you don't know what I need.

You're right. I don't know you, but I know loneliness. I know what it looks like when it's been carved into a person so deep they forgotten what anything else feels like. Sarah paused. I also know the difference between choosing to be alone and being afraid of anything else.

I'm not afraid. Then say no. She stepped back, giving him room. Say no and walk past me. Get your supplies and go home to your empty house and spend another winter talking to yourself because there's no one else to talk to.

That's your choice, Mr. Monroe. It's always been your choice. He didn't move. But if you're even a little bit tired of that life, if some part of you remembers what it felt like to have voices in your house and people who counted on you and a reason to come home that wasn't just chores and silence, then maybe we should talk.

The wind howled around them. Snow began to fall, not heavy yet, but steady. The first real snow of the season. "You're either the bravest woman I've ever met," Caleb said slowly. "Or the craziest."

"Probably both. Desperation does that to a person." "This isn't desperation. This is He searched for the word calculation. You planned this, researched me, practiced what you'd say.

Yes. The honesty seemed to surprise him. You're not going to pretend it was spontaneous. Why would I? I have two children to feed and 17 cents to my name.

Spontaneous is a luxury I can't afford. Sarah lifted her chin. I'm not ashamed of being prepared, Mr. Monroe. I'm not ashamed of doing whatever it takes to keep my children alive.

If that makes me calculating, then I'll be calculating. If it makes me manipulative, then I'll be manipulative. But I won't apologize for fighting to survive. I didn't ask you to apologize. No, you're trying to find a reason to say no.

Something wrong with me that justifies walking away. She shook her head. You won't find it. I'm not hiding anything. I'm exactly what I appear to be, a widow with two children and no options.

The question isn't whether I'm worthy of your help. The question is whether you're capable of giving it. Something shifted in his face. She couldn't read it. Anger, respect, recognition.

She didn't know. 1 hour, he said abruptly. What? There's an old claim about a mile out of town. Jameson's place before he went bust.

Creek with cottonwood trees. You know it. Sarah shook her head. Tom Thornton will tell you how to get there. 1 hour we'll talk properly without half the town listening.

Sarah glanced around for the first time. She noticed the faces in windows. The people who'd stopped on the boardwalk, the attention they'd attracted. Will you be there? I said I would.

People say a lot of things. His jaw tightened. I don't. If I say I'll be somewhere, I'll be there. 1 hour.

Don't be late. He walked past her into the store. The door swung shut between them. Sarah stood in the falling snow, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her temples. She'd done it.

She'd gotten him to listen, to agree to talk. But she hadn't won anything yet. Not really. One hour of conversation wasn't shelter. It wasn't safety.

It wasn't food for her children or warmth against the coming winter. It was just a chance. She'd built her whole life on chances. Chances that failed. Chances that broke her heart.

Chances that left her poorer and more desperate than before. But she kept taking them because the alternative was giving up. And Sarah Jenkins had forgotten how to give up somewhere between burying her husband and selling her mother's wedding ring. She turned and walked back into the store. Martha Thornton was waiting her face a mixture of shock and something that might have been admiration.

I heard Martha said well part of it enough he's agreed to talk in 1 hour at some place called Jameson's claim and you're going to go. Sarah looked at her children. Lily was pressed against the window her breath fogging the glass. Jacob stood with his arms crossed, trying to look protective and only looking young. "Yes," she said.

"I'm going alone. It's the only way he'll talk honestly without worrying about what the children might hear or the town might gossip about." Martha shook her head slowly. "You're either going to save that man or destroy him. Maybe both.

I'm just trying to save my children. That's what I mean. The hour passed slowly and too quickly at once. Sarah washed her face, tidied her hair as best she could, brushed the road dust from her coat. Small things, pointless things, but they gave her hands something to do while her mind raced.

Mama. Jacob caught her arm as she was preparing to leave. What if he says no? Then we figure out something else. What else is there?

It was a fair question, an honest question, the kind of question she'd been trying not to ask herself. I don't know yet, but we'll find it. She cuped his face in her hands. We've always found something, haven't we? Yes, ma'am.

Then trust me one more time. Can you do that? He nodded, but his eyes were too old for 11, too knowing. Take care of your sister. I'll be back before dark.

Tom Thornton lent her his wagon with directions to the Jameson claim. Sarah drove carefully, unused to handling rains, all too aware of how much she was risking on a conversation with a man who'd spent a decade pushing the world away. The cottonwood trees appeared like ghosts through the falling snow. A creek partially frozen wound between them. And standing beside a worn fence post, his horse tied nearby, was Caleb Monroe.

He'd gotten there first. She wasn't sure what that meant. Sarah pulled the wagon to a stop and climbed down her legs, stiff from the cold. The snow was falling harder now, accumulating on her shoulders, catching in her hair. "You came," she said.

"I said I would. You did. They stood facing each other, two strangers with nothing in common except proximity and need. Your husband, Caleb said without preamble. How did he die?

Consumption. It took him slowly then all at once. He was sick for a year before we knew how serious it was. Another 6 months before he couldn't work anymore. Then 3 months of watching him fade until there was nothing left to fade.