The main house was larger than Lara expected but hardly grand. It was a long timber cabin built against a line of dark pines, with a stone chimney, attached kitchen, barn, smokehouse, and several smaller bunkhouses scattered beyond the corrals.
Only one ranch hand remained nearby.
A gray-haired man named Silas Reed helped Elias stable the horses.
Silas looked at Lara.
Then Elias.
Then the trunk.
He wisely asked nothing.
Inside, the cabin was cold.
Not freezing.
But close.
Elias lit lamps while Lara stood awkwardly near the door.
The room surprised her.
It was clean but lifeless.
A heavy table.
Four chairs though only one appeared used.
A fireplace.
Books stacked neatly.
No curtains.
No pictures except one old family photograph above the mantel.
No evidence of a woman’s presence in years.
Elias removed his coat.
“You can take the bedroom.”
Lara looked toward the hallway.
“And you?”
“Sofa.”
“I won’t remove you from your own room.”
“I’ve slept outdoors in January.”
“That does not make the sofa comfortable.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
She almost smiled again.
Elias noticed.
Then looked away.
“You’ll be safe here until I can arrange transportation.”
The smile disappeared.
“Of course.”
He regretted the sentence immediately, though he did not understand why.
Lara removed her gloves.
“What do you have for supper?”
Elias frowned.
“Supper?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got coffee.”
“That is not supper.”
“Jerky.”
“That is also not supper.”
“Bread.”
“How old?”
Elias thought.
Lara stared at him.
“How old is the bread, Mr. Montgomery?”
“Depends how strict we’re being.”
She exhaled.
“Show me your pantry.”
Twenty minutes later, Lara stood in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled above her wrists.
The pantry was sparse but not hopeless.
Barley.
Dried beans.
Two onions.
Carrots beginning to soften.
Salt pork.
A small piece of beef.
Flour.
Dried thyme.
Potatoes.
Elias leaned against the doorframe.
“Is that enough?”
Lara gave him a look.
“For a meal?”
“Yes.”
“For a siege, perhaps.”
He nearly smiled.
She saw it.
“You do know how to smile.”
“No.”
“I nearly witnessed it.”
“You’re tired.”
“Possibly delirious.”
Lara set to work.
Elias tried to help once.
She removed the knife from his hand.
“You cut onions like a man seeking revenge.”
“I don’t cook.”
“I noticed.”
He sat at the table.
For the next hour, something happened inside Whispering Pines that had not happened in years.
The cabin began to smell like a home.
Onions browned in fat.
Beef simmered with barley.
Potatoes softened.
Thyme filled the kitchen.
Lara kneaded flour into quick biscuits and placed them near the stove.
Elias stopped reading.
The scent pulled him backward through time.
He was twelve again.
His mother stood at the stove while snow struck the windows.
His younger sister laughed at the table.
His father came through the door carrying firewood.
Before the fever took his mother.
Before his sister drowned during spring flooding.
Before his father drank himself hollow afterward.
Before Elias learned that loving anything meant eventually standing beside its grave.
“Mr. Montgomery?”
He looked up.
Lara stood beside the table holding a wooden bowl.
“You went somewhere.”
Elias stared at the stew.
“My mother made this.”
Lara hesitated.
“Beef and barley?”
“Yes.”
“Most mothers probably did.”
“Not like that.”
She placed it before him.
“Try it before nostalgia gives me too much credit.”
Elias picked up the spoon.
One bite.
That was all.
He stopped.
The same thyme.
The onions cooked dark before the broth.
Pepper added late.
A small amount of flour thickening the liquid.
It tasted so close that his chest tightened.
Lara watched.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“You look angry.”
“I’m not.”
“You definitely look angry.”
Elias placed the spoon down.
“My mother died when I was seventeen.”
Lara’s expression softened.
“I’m sorry.”
“She cooked this every first snow.”
Outside, the storm hammered the cabin.
Lara looked toward the window.
“Then perhaps the weather remembered.”
Elias looked at her.
The sentence broke through something.
He stood quickly.
Lara stiffened.
She expected anger.
Instead he walked toward the front door.
Opened it.
Cold air rushed inside.
Lara stared.
Elias stood in the doorway with snow blowing around him, breathing hard.
“Did I offend you?”
“No.”
“Then why are you standing outside?”
“I need air.”
“In a blizzard?”
“Yes.”
“That seems excessive.”
Elias looked back.
Lara was still holding the bowl.
Firelight caught the scar across her cheek.
He realized she thought she had done something wrong.
He stepped inside again.
Closed the door.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Lara said softly:
“I spent most of the train ride imagining what my husband would think when he saw me.”
Elias’s expression tightened.
“I shouldn’t be your husband.”
“I know.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She waited.
Elias struggled.
Words had never been his useful weapon.
“I mean you shouldn’t be tied to a man through fraud.”
Lara looked down.
“My brother tied me to worse things without paperwork.”
“Why did he send you?”
She laughed without humor.
“Because I embarrassed him.”
“How?”
She gestured toward herself.
Elias frowned.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It was enough of one in Boston.”
She touched the scar unconsciously.
“And this improved nothing.”
“What happened?”
“A carriage accident when I was nineteen.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when strangers stare at it.”
Elias immediately looked away.
Lara smiled faintly.
“That was a joke.”
“I know.”
“You looked guilty.”
“I was deciding whether I stare.”
“You do.”
He looked back.
“Sorry.”
“I didn’t say I minded.”
Something shifted between them.
Elias became very still.
Lara felt heat rise into her face.
She quickly turned toward the stove.
“I should wash these.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You almost murdered an onion.”
“I can wash a bowl.”
“Can you?”
He gave her a look.
She smiled.
The storm trapped them for three days.
On the first morning, Elias woke on the sofa to the smell of biscuits.
On the second, curtains appeared over the kitchen windows, made from fabric Lara found folded inside her trunk.
On the third, the table held a pie.
Elias stared at it.
“Where did you get apples?”
“Cellar.”
“I have apples?”
“You have an entire crate.”
“I didn’t know.”
Lara crossed her arms.
“Do you know what is in your own house?”
“Mostly.”
“You own five jars of cinnamon.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“I counted.”