Page 14 of Mail Order Moose

This time, no one questioned her.

They crossed slowly, the sleds pulled by rope and guided by men who moved with their knees bent and their hands ready. Ella waited until the last sack was over before stepping onto the stone herself. David held out his hand, but he did not reach for her unless she chose to take it.

She chose to take it.

The Peabody cabin appeared near midafternoon, though appeared was not the right word. It emerged. First the chimney, then the slant of the roof, then the front wall half buried in drift. No smoke rose from the chimney. That frightened Ella more than she expected.

David and Sebastian dug the door clear while Mr. Johnson went to the window and called inside. A child answered, thin and high. Then Mrs. Peabody’s voice came, strained with relief.

When the door finally opened inward, cold air and stale smoke drifted out together. Mrs. Peabody stood wrapped in a blanket with the baby against her shoulder and two children pressed behind her skirts. They had one heel of bread left, no beans, and hardly enough dry wood inside to bring the fire back properly.

The men moved at once. Wood came in. Snow was knocked from boots. A fire was coaxed from coals so faint Ella would have called them ash if she had not looked closely. The sacks were carried inside and set where she told them, away from the damp wall and not too near the stove.

Mrs. Peabody sank onto a chair with the baby and began to cry without sound.

Ella did not know what to say to tears. She knew what to do with flour. She measured some into a bowl, added water, salt, and a careful portion of dried meat, then set beans to soak for later though later felt too far away for the children watching her hands.

“Small cakes first,” she said to Mrs. Peabody. “They cook quickly. Soup after.”

Mrs. Peabody nodded, wiping her face with the corner of the blanket. “How did you know?”

Ella kept her eyes on the dough. “You were to collect beans after Sunday.”

“I forgot.”

“I did not,” Ella said.

It sounded proud after she said it. She had not meant it that way. But Mrs. Peabody only reached for her hand with fingers chilled and rough.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Ella’s throat tightened. “The cakes will burn.”

They did not. She turned them in time.

By the time the rescuers prepared to leave, the Peabody cabin had smoke rising properly from the chimney, soup beginning to scent the room, and enough supplies stacked against the inner wall to carry them through several days. Mrs. Peabody stood at the door with one child pressed to each side and the baby asleep against her shoulder.

“Mrs. Sanders,” Mrs. Peabody said as they stepped back into the snow.

Ella turned because that was her name now, though it still surprised her sometimes.

Mrs. Peabody shifted the baby from one arm to the other. “I’m glad you came.”

The words were plain. No flourish. No laughter. That made them heavier.

Sebastian nodded. “Next time the town argues over a road, we ask Ella first.”

A few of the men murmured agreement. Ella looked down quickly, but she could not keep from feeling the words. It wasn’t a burden. Not exactly. Respect, perhaps. She wasn’t certain how respect was supposed to feel, but it did not sting the way being stared at usually did.

The walk home was slower. The storm had not ended, but it had softened. Snow still fell, yet it came down straighter now, less like an attack and more like weather. David walked beside Ella rather than ahead, matching his stride to hers though the path was broken and he could have gone faster.

For a long while, he said nothing. Ella was grateful for that. Her legs ached. Her throat ached too, though she had not spoken so much as other people did in an ordinary morning. Speaking when it mattered seemed to use more of a person than speaking merely to fill silence.

At the creek crossing, David offered his hand again. She took it again. This time, she did not let go as quickly once they were on the other side.

“You were brave today,” he said.

Ella watched her boots sink and lift from the snow. Brave was a word for loud people, she thought. For Lula with a rifle. For Sebastian laughing in danger’s face. For men who crossed frozen creeks without hesitating because they had never been taught hesitation was sometimes wisdom.