Page 16 of Mail Order Moose

The thought unsettled her so much that she pricked her finger.

She put the finger in her mouth, frowned at the glove, and returned to work.

David noticed that evening, though not at first. Supper had taken longer than Ella meant because she had tried to make the beans taste less like yesterday’s beans, which was difficult when they were, in fact, yesterday’s beans. She added onion, pepper, and the smallest shaving of dried meat for flavor. Then, after setting aside his bowl, she scraped the pot carefully so her own would not look so much smaller.

He sat, thanked her, and ate three bites before his spoon slowed.

Ella kept her eyes on her own bowl.

“Ella.”

She looked up because there was no avoiding her name when he said it gently.

David looked from his bowl to hers. “You gave me more.”

“You worked outside.”

“You worked too.”

“Not in snow.”

He seemed to consider arguing. Then he reached for her bowl, took one spoonful from his own, and placed it in hers. Only one. Not enough to undo what she had done. Enough to tell her he had seen it.

Ella did not know whether to be embarrassed or comforted. She chose to eat before he could notice either.

After supper, David reached for his gloves on the peg. His thumb found the new stitching before his eyes did. He stopped, then turned the glove in his hand.

“You mended these.”

“There were holes.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“I know.”

He looked at her then, and there was that quiet warmth again. It had become more difficult to look away from it. “Thank you.”

Ella folded the drying cloth twice, then once more because her hands needed a task. “They will last longer now.”

“So will I, if you keep patching me together before I know I’m coming apart.”

Her hands stilled. It was nearly a joke, but not quite. David did not seem to expect her to answer it as one.

The days after the storm were full of practical things. Paths had to be cleared, roofs swept, wood brought closer, stores checked again because snow changed how far a person could go for what they lacked. Ella visited Maggie’s cabin each afternoon when the weather allowed, ledger tucked under her arm. The women no longer asked whether she was sure before following her figures. That should have frightened her. Sometimes it did. But not enough to make her stop.

At home, she learned David’s habits the way she learned any system. He preferred coffee before speaking much in the morning, though he would answer if she asked. He set his axe against the wall at an angle that looked careless but never fell. He liked bread with the crust dark. He loosened his right boot first when he came in tired. He enjoyed cards more than he admitted, though his eyes moved to the small box on the shelf whenever the evening grew quiet enough to hold a game.

On the third evening after the storm, Ella washed the supper dishes and dried her hands. David was repairing a strap on his pack at the table. The cabin was warm. The wind outside had quieted. The lamp made a small circle of light that ended before the corners of the room, leaving them dim but not threatening.

She took the card box from the shelf and set it on the table.

David looked up.

“If you want,” she said.

His smile came slowly. “I do.”

They played two-handed Euchre poorly because the game was not made for two, then altered the rules until it suited them. Ella kept score on a scrap of paper. David forgot once and laughed at himself when she corrected him. The laugh was softer than Sebastian’s, with no need to fill the room. It warmed the space just as well.