Bea hadn’t used that word for herself in years.
The storm lasted through the night and into the next day. The drifts climbed halfway up the windows. Leaving wasn’t an option.
Tom insisted on earning his keep. By morning he had split the woodpile down to neat stacks, patched the hinge the wind had worried loose, and mended a gap in the fence before Bea could argue.
“You don’t have to—” she began.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, not looking up. “I do.”
It had been a long time since a man worked beside her without trying to take something first.
That evening, as the sky finally cleared into a hard, bright blue, Tom stood awkwardly by the door, hat in hand.
“The road’ll be passable by tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll be out of your way.”
Bea nodded once.
That should have been the end of it.
