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She folded the towel around her fingers and wiped the tea away with one careful motion. Nothing fussy. Nothing lingering. She stepped back as soon as she finished.

He looked at the window.

“Thank you,” he said, barely audible.

“You are welcome.”

That should have been the end of it.

It was not.

Because now he was thinking of all the things she had not done.

She had not looked pleased to help. She had not softened her face into pity. She had not pretended the moment was nothing. She treated it as what it was: necessary, small, and unpleasant enough not to mention again.

A man could live with that kind of help.

Maybe.

He watched her gather the cup and towel. “You leaving?”

“I was going to wash this.”

“You can sit.”

She looked at him.

The invitation had escaped before he weighed it. He wanted to snatch it back. He did not.

“If you are tired, I mean,” he added.

“I am not so tired I must sit in your sickroom.”

“No.”

“Are you asking me to stay?”

His pride rose like a mean dog.

He nearly let it bite.

Then he saw the telegram edge peeking from her pocket and remembered the look on her face when she read her family needed her. She’d been brave enough to say she did not want to go; surely, he could manage three honest words.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

Eden set the cup back on the table and took the chair by the window.

The room settled around them.

Outside, the horse stamped again. The rain ticked softer now. Somewhere in the front room, Nate said something low, and Whit answered.

Eden’s hands rested still in her lap.

Jesse glanced at them. “You don’t fidget.”

“I do when alone.”

“Why not here?”