“Thomas Callahan,” he said. “Most folks call me Tom.”
Bea let the silence stretch. Wind howled through the cottonwoods and pressed against her back like a hand urging her to shut the door. She could. She should. A lone woman didn’t survive five winters out here by being soft.
But the child’s lashes were crusted with ice.
And Bea had buried a husband. She had watched two boys ride away with too much pride and not enough sense. She knew what it meant to stand in a storm pretending you were stronger than you felt.
“Get in,” she said finally, stepping back. “Before that boy freezes to your bones.”
Tom didn’t waste the invitation. He crossed the threshold with careful gratitude, ducking his head against the lintel. Snow melted instantly off his coat and pooled on her worn planks.
Bea shut the door hard against the wind.
The cabin swallowed them in heat and shadow.
