After the storm, Tom began disappearing into the barn every night.
Nora noticed immediately.
She heard hammering.
Sawing.
Occasional muttered curses.
Once Lily tried sneaking out to investigate.
Nora caught her.
“Leave him alone.”
“But what if he’s building something?”
“He probably is.”
“What?”
“If he wanted us to know, he wouldn’t be hiding it.”
Three nights before Christmas, Tom entered carrying something beneath an old blanket.
He placed it beside the fireplace.
Nora stared.
“For you,” he said.
She removed the blanket.
Her hands stopped.
A cradle.
Handmade pine.
Smooth rails.
Carefully fitted joints.
At the headboard, Tom had carved a small eight-pointed star.
Nora touched it.
Tears immediately filled her eyes.
Tom became uncomfortable.
“I can change it.”
“No.”
“Didn’t know if you’d like pine.”
“Tom.”
“Could stain it darker.”
“Tom.”
He finally looked at her.
Nora was crying openly now.
“It is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me.”
Tom frowned slightly.
“It’s just a cradle.”
“No.”
She ran her fingertips over the carved star.
“It isn’t.”
Tom understood.
He had not built furniture.
He had built evidence that he believed there might be a tomorrow.
Maybe children.
Maybe mornings.
Maybe years.
That frightened him more than the storm had.
Nora suddenly asked, “Why the star?”
Tom looked at the carving.
“My wife used to draw them.”
Nora’s fingers froze.
“Anna?”
Tom stared at her.
He had never told Nora his wife’s name.
Nora realized her mistake immediately.
The room changed.
Tom’s voice became very quiet.
“How do you know that name?”
Lily looked from one adult to the other.
Nora withdrew her hand from the cradle.
“I heard it in town.”
“From who?”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came.
Tom stood.
“Why did you come here, Nora?”
Silence.
Outside, wind moved softly beneath the eaves.
Nora looked toward Lily.
Then back at Tom.
“There are things I need to tell you.”
“Then tell me.”
“Not tonight.”
Tom’s jaw hardened.
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“I know.”
“You came specifically looking for my ranch.”
She said nothing.
“Mrs. Talbot told me.”
Nora closed her eyes.
Tom felt something terrible growing beneath his ribs.
“What do you want?”
Her eyes opened.
“You.”
The word stunned him.
But she continued.
“Not the way you think.”
That hurt more.
“I needed to know what kind of man you were.”
“Why?”
Nora looked toward Lily again.
Tom followed her gaze.
And for one strange instant, something impossible moved through him.
Lily’s eyes.
Gray-green.
Like Anna’s.
He had noticed before.
He had never allowed himself to think about it.
Tom looked back at Nora.
She whispered, “Please give me three days.”
“For what?”
“Christmas.”
“What happens on Christmas?”
“I hope I can finally prove something.”
Tom wanted to demand more.
Instead, he looked at Lily.
The child appeared terrified.
So Tom swallowed every question.
“Three days.”
Nora nodded.
“Thank you.”
Tom walked outside.
He remained in the barn until nearly dawn.
Christmas Eve came beneath clear skies.
The storm had left the world white and painfully bright.
That evening Caleb and the men ate supper in the cabin.
Lily hung three crooked paper stars above the fireplace.
Nora baked a small pie.
Tom said little.
Every time he looked at Nora, he remembered her words.
I needed to know what kind of man you were.
He should have been angry.
He was angry.
But anger had become tangled with something else.
