Eli Callaway's face was hard to read, but not because he was hiding something. It was hard to read because he wasn't performing anything. He was just standing in the snow, holding his hat, saying a true thing. "What kind of help?" she asked.
"The cattle are struggling in this cold. I've got three ranch hands, and we're running short rotations keeping the herd from freezing out in the north pasture. I can't be in the barn and in the house at the same time." He paused.
"My mother's 68 years old, and she's been doing the work of two women for the past week trying to keep up with the boys, the cooking, and the firewood. Jesse and Cole, my boys, need someone in the house with them who's got energy to spare. My mother doesn't have much to spare, though she won't say it." Clara listened without interrupting.
"You want me to watch your children?" "I want to offer you a warm room, three meals a day, and a ride back to the station the moment that coach is running again," he said. "In exchange for helping around the house, cooking, watching the boys, whatever my mother needs. No strings, no obligation past what I just said."
Clara was quiet for a long moment. "Mr. Callaway," she finally said, "you don't know a single thing about me." "I know you told Tom Harding to buy himself a conscience and walked away without begging him for anything," he said. "Briggs heard the whole thing through his window."
"Told me right when I walked in, figuring I'd find it funny." Eli put his hat back on. "I didn't find it funny. I found it impressive."
Clara felt something move in her chest. Not warmth, not yet, but the memory of warmth, the shape of what warmth used to feel like before the past three years had made her so careful. "I'm a widow," she said. "My husband died 18 months ago."
"Left debts. I've been working and saving since then, and I spent nearly everything I had getting here." She said it plainly, without apology or performance. "I want you to know exactly who you're inviting onto your ranch." Eli looked at her steadily.
"I'm a widower," he said. "My wife died in childbirth, and I couldn't save her. I've been running that ranch alone since then, and I haven't done a particularly good job of the parts that matter most." He paused.
"I figure we're even on hard history." The wind hit them both at the same moment, a hard gust that made the porch lantern swing and threw snow up against the store windows. Clara grabbed her bag. Eli grabbed his hat.
When it passed, they looked at each other. "All right," Clara said. "Just until the coach runs." "Just until the coach runs," he agreed.
The wagon ride took 40 minutes in the dark and the snow, and it was the most uncomfortable 40 minutes of Clara's life. She perched on the hard bench seat with the wind driving needles of ice against any exposed skin, the horses working hard and the road barely visible ahead of the lantern's reach. Eli drove without talking much. That suited Clara fine.
She wasn't in a conversational mood. Once he said, "You cold?" "I'm fine." "There's a blanket behind the seat."
She found it and pulled it around her shoulders. It smelled like horses and wood smoke. It was the best thing she'd felt all day. The ranch appeared out of the dark as a cluster of yellow lights, windows glowing, a broad shape of buildings, and the low sound of cattle somewhere beyond.