God, yes. Silas cuped her face in his hands, rough, scarred hands that had held her together when she was falling apart. And then he kissed her. It was gentle, reverent, like a promise. When they pulled apart, Mara was shaking.
I don't know how to do this, she whispered. I don't know how to start over. Neither do I. Silus rested his forehead against hers. But maybe we figure it out together.
Mara closed her eyes, let herself lean into him, let herself believe. Maybe we will. For the first time in a long, brutal year, Mara Ellington let herself hope. And when morning came, Silas didn't leave. He stayed.
The morning Silas stayed was the morning everything changed. Mara woke to the sound of an axe splitting wood. Steady, rhythmic, reassuring. She sat up in the loft where she'd made her bed among the children, careful not to wake Abigail curled against her side, and looked down through the gap in the floorboards. Silas was outside already working.
The sun hadn't fully risen yet, painting the valley in shades of pearl and gold, and he was building something. A chicken coupe, she realized where he'd gotten the lumber, she had no idea. But there it was, taking shape under his hands like he'd conjured it from morning mist and determination. She climbed down the ladder quietly, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and stepped outside. The air was cold and clean, sharp in her lungs.
Silas looked up when he heard her footsteps, his breath misting in the early chill. Didn't mean to wake you. You didn't. Mara hugged the shawl tighter. What are you building, coupe?
Figured you could use chickens. Eggs for the kids. Silus, you don't have to. I know. He set down the hammer straightened.
But I want to. There was something different about him this morning. Something settled. Like a man who'd finally stopped running and decided to stand his ground. Mara felt her throat tighten.
You meant it. What you said last night. Every word. You're really staying. If you'll have me.
Mara crossed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face against his chest. He smelled like pine smoke and leather and safety. His arms came around her strong and sure, and for a moment they just stood there in the breaking dawn, two broken people learning how to be whole. "The children will wake up soon," she whispered against his shirt. "I know they'll see you here.
They'll ask questions. Let them." Mara pulled back, looked up at him. What do I tell them? Silus brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch impossibly gentle. The truth that I'm staying, that I'm going to help take care of them, that they're safe and us.
What are we? Silas was quiet for a moment. Then whatever you want us to be, I'm not asking you to marry me tomorrow, Mara. I know it's too soon. I know you're still grieving, Daniel, but I'm asking if I can be here.