In her reverie, Ellen had forgotten about Mr. Horn, so warm and comfortable she felt with the extra wood both she and Philip had fed the fire. The cabin almost glowed red at the seams.
Philip looked her up and down, his gaze resting for a moment on her belly, then moving back to her face.
“Are you well?” he asked. “Can I help in some way? I can make a tea.”
She c****d her head. His forearms bulged bigger than his father’s biceps, curved strong like those of the men who felled trees and even those who fed the trunks into the saws. Arms built for swinging a poleaxe or pulling a crosscut saw, with a nest of dark hairs that glowed mahogany in the sunlight. She felt safe, consoled. Since she’d arrived in the bush, they’d crossed paths several times – near the schoolhouse, on the road – and
