The rain is immediate and total. She finds the ladder in the dark, finds the spare shingles under the leanto and is halfway up with a bundle under one arm when the wind catches the ladder and she goes sideways and has to jump clear, landing hard on her hands and knees in the mud. She is still there catching her breath when the light comes. A lantern swinging with the motion of a horse. And then Amos Caldwell is out of the saddle before the horse has fully stopped.
Don't do that, he says, reaching her. Not angry. A person saying something plainly in a crisis. Don't climb in this. The west shingles are going.
She is already standing. Her hands are muddy and her back aches and the child is pressing against her diaphragm with what feels like deliberate inconvenience. I know, he says. Get inside. I'll go up.
You don't need Clara. He says her name for the first time. Not Mrs. Whitmore, not ma'am. Her name directly without flourish.
I can fix this. Let me do this. She looks at him in the lantern light. Rain running off the brim of his hat and understands this is not an argument about dependency or control. This is a man who can see the problem and is offering to solve it in the most direct way available.
Take the bundle, she says. The spare shingles. There's enough for the top three courses. He goes up. She stands in the rain watching him work.
The lantern wedged into the ridge beam and feels something she is not entirely prepared for. Not gratitude exactly, something more complicated. The recognition of a person who has been wrong about something, namely that some problems require help and who is learning to be wrong without it costing her everything. The storm lasts another 2 hours. When it eases, the west shingles are holding.
Amos comes down the ladder soaked and checks the base of the walls for water intrusion without being asked. She does the same on the other side. It's tight, he says. Yes, she says. They stand in the lessening rain and look at the cabin.