Lily stayed away.
On Christmas Eve, Tom entered carrying something concealed beneath an old horse blanket.
Snow glittered on his shoulders.
He placed the object beside the fire.
Lily bounced.
“Is it mine?”
Tom glanced at Nora.
“No.”
Lily’s face fell.
“Not entirely.”
That restored her.
Nora approached slowly.
“Tom, what have you done?”
He nodded toward the blanket.
Nora pulled it away.
The room disappeared around her.
A pine cradle stood beside the hearth.
Perfectly fitted.
Hand sanded.
Warm golden wood.
And in the center of the headboard was a tiny carved star.
Nora stopped breathing.
Tom misread her expression.
“I know there’s no need for it now,” he said awkwardly. “I just thought… someday maybe Lily might have a little brother or sister. Or if not, she can use it for dolls.”
Nora touched the star.
Her fingers shook.
Tell Tom his little star lived.
Evelyn’s dying words came back with painful clarity.
Nora covered her mouth.
Tom stepped forward.
“Did I do something wrong?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“No, Tom.”
Lily peered into the cradle.
“It’s beautiful!”
Nora looked at the man who had unknowingly carved the same symbol that had followed his lost daughter into the world.
For one wild moment she almost told him everything.
She almost reached beneath her bed for the envelope, the ring, the photograph.
But then Lily climbed into Tom’s lap and announced that the cradle needed a blanket.
Tom looked at her with such tenderness that Nora’s courage collapsed.
She told herself she would speak after Christmas.
Then after the roundup.
Then after one more peaceful day.
Secrets are easiest to keep when they are first born.
After that, they grow.
Two nights after the winter roundup, the house became unusually still.
Lily had fallen asleep beside the fire.
Tom stood near the hearth.
Nora was mending a shirt.
“Nora.”
She looked up.
Something in his voice made her set the needle down.
Tom faced the flames for a moment.
Then her.
“I’m not good at this.”
“At what?”
“Words.”
“You use them every day.”
“Not these.”
He drew a slow breath.
“You and Lily…”
His throat tightened.
“You’ve made this house a home.”
Nora froze.
Tom stepped closer.
“I spent six years telling myself I didn’t need one.”
“Tom…”
“I was wrong.”
Her heart began pounding.
“I’m asking you to stay.”
The world narrowed.
“I’m asking you to be my wife.”
Nora’s eyes filled.
There it was.
Everything she secretly wanted.
And everything she could never accept without first risking its destruction.
Tom waited.
“Nora?”
She looked toward Lily.
The child slept peacefully beneath the quilt.
Then Nora whispered:
“Before I answer, there is something you have to know about Lily.”
Tom’s expression changed.
“What?”
Nora’s mouth went dry.
“Lily isn’t my daughter.”
Silence.
Tom stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t give birth to her.”
He glanced at Lily, then back.
“She’s adopted?”
Nora nodded.
“In a way.”
Tom waited.
Nora could no longer feel her hands.
“Six years ago, during the Red Willow flood, I was living at a stage station south of the river.”
