34. Dinner Table
Dinner Table
Helena
Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart; for God now accepteth thy works.
Silas was already in the stables when I came down for breakfast. As Eli poured his second cup of coffee, he casually mentioned, “Said he wasn’t hungry this morning.” There was no judgment in his tone, but the words lingered in my ears like a subtle warning.
When the kitchen emptied, and the sound of boots faded, I busied myself with the dishes.
The window above the sink offered a clear view of Silas moving through the yard.
He tackled each task with a rigid determination: hefting hay bales onto the flatbed, hammering sagging paddock rails, even cleaning out a trough that looked perfectly fine to me.
His movements were sharp, each swing of the hammer and toss of hay brimming with barely-contained frustration.
I scrubbed the plates with a little too much force, unable to look away.
It was as though he was punishing himself.
Or maybe trying to outrun something only he could see.
The Silas I knew never avoided breakfast, never let his anger run wild like this.
He was patient, steady, and careful. Now he moves like he’s racing against something none of us can see.
The Silas who held me in his arms under a starlit sky is gone, buried beneath years of grief and guilt.
How do I bring him back? Do I even want to, if it means seeing him like this?
The memories of last night flickered in my mind like a flame, warming my skin.
The last thing I remembered was the way he had lifted me effortlessly from the floor, cradling me against his chest. I had fallen asleep in his arms, and when I woke, I was alone in my bed, knees bruised, body aching, and heart strangely heavy.
But it wasn’t just the marks he left on my skin that remained.
It was the heat. The fire he had reignited in me, a hunger that had lain dormant for far too long.
It burned now, threatening to consume me as the memory of his touch played on an endless loop in my mind.
The way his hands claimed and commanded, how he didn’t just hold me but molded me to him, as though my body was entirely his.
He was right. I had forgotten. Forgotten what his touch could do to me. Forgotten the way he knew every inch of me better than I knew myself. Forgotten how easily he could undo me, piece by trembling piece.
Watching him now, the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw, I wondered if he felt it too, this storm brewing between us. Or was I the only one still caught in the aftermath of last night’s reckoning?
The day rolled on with the usual rhythm.
Food prep, Kiran’s lessons, and sweeping dirt from the kitchen floor.
The men’s boots seemed to have a magnetic attraction to mud and dust. The late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow on the countertops as I scrubbed away the remnants of flour from the morning’s biscuit dough .
Eli strolled into the kitchen, hanging his battered hat by the back door. “Men’ll be in for dinner soon,” he announced, his voice as unhurried as the day.
I wiped my hands on a towel and nodded toward the pots simmering on the stove. “Everything’s ready.” I paused, glancing at him. “Should I set Silas a place?”
Eli tilted his head, one brow quirking up as he eyed me. “Don’t think so. He’s in one hell of a mood today. Yelled at Marcel for breathing too loud out in the stables.”
I let out a sharp laugh, tossing the towel onto the counter. Leaning back, I crossed my arms. “He’s a frustrating creature, Eli. More so than I remember.”
Eli’s mouth twitched in that telltale way, the corner of it curving into a sly grin. “Trouble on lover’s lane?”
I shoot him a pointed look. “Everything was fine last night, and then I woke up to him being his usual evasive self. How am I supposed to get through to him when he’s like this? It’s like one step forward and two back.”
Eli leaned against the counter, scratching absently at the stubble on his jaw. “You’ve been whispering, Caroline, when you should be yelling.”
I blinked at him, tilting my head in confusion. “What does that even mean, Eli?”
He shrugged, all easy nonchalance, though the weight of his words hit harder than he let on. “You two used to smile the most at each other after you had a good fight. Maybe you just need to lock horns and get it over with.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, the gears in my mind turning. “Eli Montgomery,” I said slowly, pointing an accusing finger at his smirking face, “are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
His grin deepened, that mischievous glint in his eye making him look more like a rascally teenager than a weathered ranch hand. “Depends. If you think I’m saying to get him riled before kissing and making up, then yes, ma’am. That’s exactly what I’m saying. ”
I rolled my eyes, grabbing the dish towel and smacking his arm with it. “You’re a dirty old man.”
“Just living vicariously through you kids.” He shoved off the counter and straightened “Tell you what. After dinner, I’ll get Kiran off to bed. Marcel’s already tucked away. You want to get through to Silas? Go to him. Make him remember the woman he loved, not the one he buried.”
I grip the foil-covered plate tightly in my hand; the edges crinkling under my fingers as I step into the cool evening air. As the sun dips below the horizon, it casts the world in deep, warm hues. The chill of spring has softened; summer is finally creeping in.
Golden light spills from the stable doors, painting long, flickering shadows against the packed dirt and gravel outside. Inside, the silhouette of Silas moves tirelessly through the tack room.
He’s scrubbing his saddle like it carries years of neglect, his forearms flexing with each purposeful stroke. Water drips from the leather to the floor, pooling beneath his boots. The air smells of damp earth and oil and soap.
Clearing my throat softly, I step inside. “You didn’t come in for dinner, so I brought you a plate,” I say, my voice unsure.
Silas doesn’t stop, doesn’t even glance at me. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” he replies curtly, the steady scrape of bristles on leather filling the air between us like an abrasive barrier.
I tighten my grip on the plate, refusing to let his dismissal stop me. “You didn’t have breakfast either, and Eli said?—”
“I’m fine, Ms. Toth.” The harshness of his tone stings.
He tosses the brush into the bucket with a dull splash, shoulders taut with tension, and in one swift, fluid motion, hoists the saddle onto his shoulder.
The force of it sends a cold chill through the room as he brushes past me.
My fingers tremble, and I nearly lose my hold on the plate, barely catching it as he strides to the saddle rack and throws it into place with more force than necessary .
The bubbling frustration I’ve been holding down since this morning finally bursts, tightening in my chest and propelling the words from my mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you, Silas?”
He halts, his broad back to me, towel frozen in his hands. The air around us is suffocating, the creak of the wooden beams overhead the only sound in the sudden stillness. Slowly, painfully so, he turns to face me.
His dark eyes find mine, the light overhead illuminating their stormy depths. There’s a dangerous edge to his expression, a sharp crack in his composure that has me gripping the plate like it might save me.
“What does the word Bronco mean to you?” His voice is tight, like a string ready to snap.
A sharp breath hitches in my throat. The plate trembles in my hands, a betraying sign of the sudden tension. My mind reels. “Bronco?” I ask, my voice faltering, thin against his suspicion settling between us.
He steps forward, crossing the distance in a single movement, his shoulders towering over me. His arms folded across his chest, his stance unyielding. “Yes. Bronco. ”
I swallow hard, my mind working frantically to parse the emotions in his tone, filled with frustration and suspicion that feels ready to explode. My thoughts spiral back to a warm summer evening, a memory graphic enough to sting but fragile in my grasp.
The night we first made love.
Eight Years Ago
“I want to show you something,” Silas says, his voice edged with an excitement that tugs at my curiosity.
He takes my hand, calloused but warm, and leads me down the steps of the back porch of his family home.
The sun dips low on the horizon, casting the world in golden hues as he pulls me toward the stables .
Inside, the sounds of the horses surround us. Silas stops in front of a stall and points, his smile barely contained. “This is Merriweather.”
The mare stands calmly, her eyes kind and curious as she takes me in. I step closer, letting my fingers brush her smooth neck. “She’s beautiful,” I say, enchanted by her gentle demeanor.
“I bought her for you,” he says. “She could be yours, once we’re married.”
I turn to him, and his blue eyes shine brighter than the fading sunlight streaming through the stable slats. His confidence makes my heart leap, though I can’t resist teasing. “You trying to tie me down, Mr. Hayes?” I give him a sly grin, running my hand down Merriweather’s neck again.
“Would that be so bad, Miss Monroe?” he asks, stepping closer.
I shake my head, trying to hide the way my cheeks flush under his steady gaze. “Don’t tease me,” I murmur softly.
In a single stride, he closes the distance between us.
His arm slips around my waist, drawing me against him, and his free hand tilts my chin so I have no choice but to meet his gaze.
“I’d never tease about that, Caroline.” His eyes study my face, their intensity making my breath catch.
“You’re so beautiful, so good. I just hope you think I’m worthy enough to tie yourself to me. ”