He's getting dressed. Girl can help you in the house. Storm like this will need more wood brought in. Can she carry small loads? Yes.

Good. Idle hands in a blizzard lead to trouble. He ate quickly mechanically like a man refueling rather than enjoying a meal. Sarah watched him and wondered when he'd last tasted anything. Really tasted it instead of just consuming what his body needed.

The oatmeal, she said. Is it all right? He paused midbite. What? The oatmeal?

I wasn't sure how you take it. Some men like it thick, some like it thin. I can adjust for tomorrow if it's fine. But is it good? There's a difference between fine and good.

He stared at her like she'd started speaking a foreign language. Does it matter to me? It does. I'm here to do a job. I'd like to do it well.

Something complicated moved across his face. It's good. Better than what I make. Smoother. I added a little butter while it was cooking.

Helps with the texture. Oh. He took another bite and Sarah could swear he tasted it this time. Really tasted it. That's Thank you.

It was the most sincere thing he'd said since they arrived. The day was brutal. Jacob worked beside Caleb in the barn, learning to break ice on water troughs to distribute feed efficiently to check animals for signs of cold stress. Sarah watched from the kitchen window when she could her heart in her throat. Every time the wind gusted hard enough to make the boy stagger, but he kept going.

Every time he stumbled, he got back up. Every time the cold seemed too much, he pushed through. Her son, she thought with fierce pride. Her William's son. Lily helped carry wood small arm loads that she treated like precious cargo.

She also discovered the chickens in the small coupe attached to the barn and came back to the house full of breathless reports. There's six of them, mama. Five brown ones and one white one. Caleb says the white one is mean, but she lays the best eggs. Can I name them?

He said I could if I wanted. He said that. Well, he said I don't care what you call them as long as you collect the eggs. That means yes, right? Sarah hid a smile.

I think it means yes. Dinner that night was more elaborate stew from the preserved meat biscuits Sarah made from scratch. A simple dessert of stewed apples. Caleb said nothing when he sat down, but she noticed he took second helpings of everything. Storm should blow itself out by tomorrow, he said as they finished eating.

Then we'll have three, maybe 4 days of clear weather before the next one hits. How do you know? Been watching this weather for 10 years. It has patterns, rhythms. He pushed back from the table.

We'll use those clear days to shore up the fence line. Boy can help. You'll need to preserve the meat I'll be butchering. I know how to preserve meat. Know how to do it in volume.

We're not talking about a rabbit or two. We're talking about enough beef to last four people through winter. Four people. He'd included them in his count without seeming to notice. I'll manage.

You keep saying that because it keeps being true. The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but closer than she'd seen. Tomorrow, he said, and headed for his room. The pattern of their days began to take shape.

Morning started before dawn. Caleb and Jacob to the stock. Sarah to the kitchen. Lily to the chickens she'd claimed as her personal responsibility. Breakfast together, then the day's work, dinner as the sun set, evenings by the fire, quiet but not uncomfortable.

Caleb didn't talk much, but Sarah began to read his silences. There was the tense silence when something was wrong. A sick animal, a broken fence, a worry he wouldn't share. There was the comfortable silence of a man working through problems in his head. And there was the watchful silence of someone observing cataloging, trying to understand.

He watched them all the time. Not suspiciously exactly, more like a man studying something he'd never encountered before. "You're staring again," Sarah said one evening, two weeks into their arrangement. Caleb blinked. "What?

You've been staring at Jacob for the past 10 minutes?" He looked away embarrassed, just thinking. about the way he is with the horses. He's got good instincts better than most men twice his age. He loves them. Animals, I mean, always has, even in the city.

Cities don't have animals like this. Cities have enough to catch a boy's attention. Carriage horses, street dogs, the occasional cat. Jacob used to spend hours at the livery stable near our apartment. The owner let him help sometimes in exchange for lessons about horses.

That where he learned to ride. Learned is a strong word. He sat on horses, walked them around a paddic. It was enough to give him the basics. Caleb was quiet for a moment.

I could teach him more if he wants. He'd want that very much. It's practical, Caleb said quickly. He needs to know how to handle horses if he's going to be useful around here. Of course, practical.

He shot her a look that suggested he knew she was humoring him, but couldn't figure out how to object. Lily, meanwhile, had claimed her own corner of the ranch. The chickens had names now. Henrietta, Beatatrice, Martha, Adelaide Constants, and the mean white one she dubbed Empress Victoria, and she'd appointed herself their official caretaker. Caleb, she announced one morning.

Henrietta is sick. Caleb looked up from his coffee. What? Henrietta, she's not eating like the others, and her feathers are all puffed up. Chickens puff up in the cold.

It's normal. Not like this. This is different puffing. Lily's face was serious. I think she needs medicine.

Caleb stared at the six-year-old lecturing him about chicken health and seemed utterly at a loss. I'll check on her, he said finally. Now, after breakfast. But what if she gets sicker while we're eating? Sarah intervened.

Lily let Caleb finish his coffee. Henrietta will be fine for another 20 minutes. Lily subsided, but her eyes kept darting to the window, watching for any sign of chicken distress. Caleb checked on Henrietta after breakfast. Lily trailing behind him like a determined shadow.

When they came back, he was carrying a small bundle of feathers. It's not Henrietta, he said. It's Adelaide. And she's not sick. She's brooding.

Brooding? Wants to sit on eggs. We'll need to separate her from the others for a while. Lily's face transformed with joy. She's going to have babies.

If the eggs are fertile, maybe. No guarantees. Can I help take care of her, please? Caleb looked at Sarah, clearly hoping for rescue. She offered none.

I suppose, he said. But you do exactly what I tell you. Brooding hens are temperamental. I will, I promise. She ran off to tell her brother.