Yet tonight he did not ride away.
Through the little square of yellow lamplight, he watched Miriam pretend she was not starving.
He watched Jonah offer her part of his meal.
He watched Peter lick crumbs from his fingers.
Then Miriam turned away so her sons would not see her face.
Her hand rose to cover her mouth.
Her shoulders shook once.
Outside, Silas Crowe closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, something hard had changed in his expression.
Inside the cabin, Jonah suddenly lifted his head.
“Ma…”
Miriam wiped her cheek quickly.
“What?”
“Someone’s outside.”
Peter stopped chewing.
A shadow moved across the frozen window.
Miriam rose at once and stepped between the glass and her boys.
The shadow disappeared.
Then came the sound of a horse shifting in deep snow.
A moment later—
THUD.
A boot struck the porch.
Another followed.
Slow.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Miriam snatched Isaac’s old hunting knife from the table.
Jonah stood beside her.
The floorboards outside creaked.
Then someone knocked.
Three times.
Miriam tightened her grip around the knife.
“Who is it?”
A deep voice answered through the door.
“Silas Crowe.”
She knew the name.
Everybody did.
“What do you want?”
“Open the door.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Silence.
Then:
“I brought food.”
Miriam stared at the door.
Her pride rose before her common sense.
“We don’t need charity.”
“I didn’t say it was charity.”
“What is it, then?”
There was a pause long enough to make the fire crack loudly behind her.
Then Silas said something that made Miriam’s blood turn cold.
“Your husband already paid me for it.”
She opened the door.
Snow exploded into the room.
Silas Crowe stood beneath the porch roof with white ice clinging to his shoulders and beard.
At his feet were two canvas sacks.
Flour.
Beans.
Salt.
Coffee.
Bacon wrapped in cloth.
Behind him, tied across the saddle of his horse, were split logs.
Miriam stared.
“My husband has been dead seven months.”
“I know.”
“Then explain what you meant.”
Silas looked past her.
His eyes moved over Peter.
Then Jonah.
For some reason, they remained on Jonah a heartbeat longer.
Finally, they settled on the photograph standing beside the stove.
Isaac.
Smiling faintly.
One hand resting against a fence post.
Silas stopped breathing.
Miriam noticed.
“What?”
He stepped into the cabin without answering.
“Mr. Crowe—”
Silas picked up the photograph.
His face drained of color.
The hand holding the frame began to tremble.
Miriam had heard stories of Silas Crowe facing down armed cattle thieves without blinking.
Yet now the man looked as though the dead had reached through the glass and touched him.
“Where did you get this?”
Miriam’s fear hardened into anger.
“That is my husband.”
Silas slowly looked at her.
“No.”
“What?”
