He warmed goat\u2019s milk in an iron pot and fed the babies by wooden spoon: tiny sips, clumsy at first, then greedy. He cleaned the woman\u2019s legs with a warm cloth, rinsing blood from scraped knees and deep bruises left by heavy boots. She slept like the dying sleep\u2014thin, even, stubborn.<\/p>\n
When she finally stirred, her voice was a rasp:<\/p>\n
\u201cMarabel. Marabel Quinn.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSilas,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Her gaze slid to the basket. One of the girls sneezed. Marabel\u2019s eyes brimmed, but her body was too broken for sobbing. Silas tucked an elk-fur cloak beneath the babies; its warmth held.<\/p>\n
By the second dawn, color crept back into Marabel\u2019s face. The girls\u2014Eloise, Ruth, and June\u2014woke hungry and loud, the purest kind of mercy.<\/p>\n
Silas didn\u2019t ask questions. Silence, in its way, was kindness. He sharpened a knife on a wet stone, and the cabin settled around the simple facts of fire and breath.<\/p>\n
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