Callum folded the paper carefully. He looked out at the canyon ridge for a moment, where a hawk was turning slow circles in the cold air above the red rock. He spoke without looking at her.
"Your father once carried me 8 miles through Paiute territory with an arrow in my left shoulder because I couldn't ride. He did it in the dark, in the rain, and didn't complain once. He sat with me for two nights after while the fever fought to take me. Never asked for a thing."
Clara's lips pressed together. "He didn't tell me that. He wouldn't."
Callum looked at her then. "How long before the boarding house puts you out?"
"4 days."
"Any family in the territory?"
She shook her head.
"Then come inside."
Her chin went up immediately. "I told you I'm not asking for charity."
"I know what you're asking for," he said quietly, "and I know what I'm offering. Come inside, Miss Dutton. The wind is picking up."
They sat on opposite sides of a rough-hewn table with a pot of coffee between them. The cabin was bare: a cot, a cast-iron stove, a single shelf of books, and two oil lamps. Clara sat with her hands folded in her lap and looked at everything except Callum. He poured coffee into a tin cup, set it in front of her, and waited. She finally picked it up and held it with both hands like it was something warm she hadn't expected to find.
He spoke plainly. "I'm not offering charity. The land is more than one man can work through winter. The garden's failing for lack of attention. I can't keep the accounts straight and manage the horses and fix what's breaking all at once."
He paused. "Your father told me once that your mother ran a household like a general runs a campaign. Said you learned from her."