He had no answer for her, none that would not break him open. He saw Elara's face in the fire, felt the phantom weight of a swaddled infant in his arms. He gently pulled his hand from her grasp. He stood up, his movement stiff. He turned from her, busying himself with the fire, poking at logs that did not need poking.
"It's late," he said, his voice thick. "You should sleep." She watched him for a moment longer, then rose and slipped back into her own room. He heard the soft slide of the latch. Daniel did not go to bed.
He stood by the cold window, staring out at the white, empty darkness. He had not cried in 5 years, not since the day he buried his wife and child. He did not cry now. He just felt the great cold weight of his solitude, a weight that for one brief moment another person had offered to share. That night, when he finally fell onto his cot, he dreamed.
He dreamed of holding someone, of the warmth of a body pressed against his, of the scent of woods smoke and pine, and the simple uncomplicated peace of not being alone. He woke before dawn, the ache in his chest sharper than any winter cold. Winter's grip on the high desert did not break, but it loosened. The sun, which for months had been a pale, distant coin, began to carry a fragile warmth. Snow melt trickled from the roof and the ground frozen iron hard for a 100 days softened to a thick cold mud.
The weight of the snows had damaged the cabin. A section of the south roof over the main room had sagged. Daniel knew it was a support beam cracked under the load. It was a clear, cold afternoon when he finally set to fixing it. He'd brought the new timber inside, braced the ceiling, and begun the hard work of chiseling out the old damaged wood.
It was heavy, hot labor. The cabin, with the fire banked low, became stuffy. First, he shed his heavy wool coat. An hour later, his flannel shirt was dark with sweat and sticking to his back. He grunted, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it onto his chair.
The cold air hit his skin, and it was a relief. He went back to work, his back to the room, his arms raised as he worked the chisel and mallet, the muscles in his shoulders and back bunched and released. The product of years of solitude and hard physical survival. He was so focused on the task, on the precise angle of the cut that he did not hear her enter. He only knew she was there when she spoke, her voice quiet, but so close it made him jolt, nearly dropping the heavy mallet.