"Nothing else?"
Elias understood then.
She was afraid he had poisoned her.
"No," he said quietly. "Nothing else."
She continued watching him.
He took a spoonful himself, swallowed it, and set the spoon down.
"See?"
The woman looked away.
Elias moved toward the door.
"I'll leave you alone. If you need anything, call."
He had taken only two steps when he heard the spoon touch the bowl.
She was eating.
He did not turn around.
Instead, he went outside, saddled Copper again, and rode to the creek to retrieve the small bundle of belongings he had seen near the rocks. He found only a torn shawl and a leather purse containing three pennies and a folded piece of paper.
There was writing on the paper, but the rain had damaged it.
Elias placed everything in his saddlebag and returned home.
By the time he entered the kitchen, the bowl was empty.
The woman had fallen asleep.
He stood beside the bed for a long moment, studying her face. She looked younger than he had first imagined, perhaps thirty or a little older. Her features were delicate, but hardship had carved deep lines around her mouth.
He wondered who had left her on the trail.
He wondered what kind of person could do such a thing.
And he wondered why she had been so frightened of being found.
That evening, he prepared another small meal and left it beside her bed. He placed a glass of water on the table and brought another blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed.
When she woke, the fire was burning brightly.
Elias sat near the stove, repairing a broken strap.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
The woman took a moment before answering.
"Better."
"Good."
She looked at the bowl.
"Did you make this?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Elias lowered the strap.
"Because you need to eat."
She seemed frustrated by the answer.
"No. Why are you helping me?"
He considered the question.
He could have told her that his mother had raised him to help people. He could have said that the Bible commanded kindness toward strangers. He could have explained that he had once been a husband and father, and that losing his family had taught him the value of a life.
Instead, he said the simplest thing he knew.
"Because you were hungry."
The woman lowered her eyes.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she whispered, "My name is Clara."
"Clara what?"
"Bennett."
Elias nodded.
"Where are you from, Clara Bennett?"
She looked toward the window.
"Far away."
He recognized the expression on her face. It was the look of someone who had spent too long running from something she could not escape.
"All right," he said. "You don't have to tell me."
Clara looked at him with surprise.
"You're not going to ask?"
"Not tonight."
He returned to his work.
Outside, the wind rattled the shutters. The cattle shifted restlessly in the pasture, and somewhere in the barn a horse stamped its hoof.
Clara watched Elias for a long time.
Then she ate the food.
During the next three days, she slowly regained her strength. Elias brought her meals, heated water for washing, and showed her where the well was located. He explained how to use the stove and which door led to the pantry.
He never entered the bedroom without knocking.
He never asked her to explain the bruises on her wrists.
He never demanded to know why she had been alone.
For Clara, these small courtesies were almost more difficult to understand than cruelty.
She had spent the previous year learning that kindness usually came with a price. Men offered assistance only to demand obedience. Employers promised protection while taking away freedom. Even the people who claimed to care for her had eventually turned away.
But Elias seemed content to let her exist without asking anything in return.
On the fourth morning, Clara rose early and walked into the kitchen.
Elias was standing at the stove, attempting to fry potatoes.
"You should be resting," he said.
"I have rested enough."