Not fear.
Heat.
She pulled away.
"Deal."
"Deal."
He put his hat back on.
"Thank you, Mrs. Matthews."
She turned toward the cabin.
"You can call me Clara."
He stopped.
She immediately regretted it.
Too familiar.
Too soft.
He repeated the name.
Slowly.
"Clara."
It sounded different in his voice.
She walked faster.
"The weather's changing."
He looked toward the ridge.
Dark clouds were building.
"So it is."
"You should leave."
"I will."
He followed her back toward the yard.
Halfway there, he stopped.
She turned.
"What?"
He was looking at the woodpile.
It was embarrassingly small.
"I'll manage."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking."
He removed his gloves.
"I was."
"No."
"No what?"
"No to whatever you're about to do."
He walked toward the axe.
She stared.
"I said no."
He lifted a log onto the chopping block.
"Didn't hear you."
"You heard me perfectly."
The axe came down.
The log split cleanly.
The widow stared.
"That's my axe."
"I noticed."
Another log.
Another strike.
Perfect split.
"You bought cattle, not employment."
"Good."
The axe rose again.
"I work expensive."
She crossed her arms.
"I can chop my own wood."
"I believe you."
"Then stop."
He split another log.
The widow opened her mouth.
Nothing useful came out.
So she stood there.
Watching.
That annoyed her even more.
The cowboy did not rush.
No performance.
No dramatic display of strength.
Just rhythm.
Lift.
Strike.
Split.
Stack.
Again.
His coat came off after several minutes.
Then his gloves.
His shirt stretched across his shoulders with each movement.
The widow tried not to notice.
She failed.
He doubled the woodpile.
Then tripled it.
By the time he finally leaned the axe against the block, enough wood stood stacked beneath the awning to last well into the worst part of winter.
He picked up his coat.
"There."
The widow looked at the pile.
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
"Then why?"
He shrugged.
"Needed doing."
She disliked simple answers.
They were difficult to fight.
The wind strengthened.
Snow began to move sideways.
She looked toward his horse.
"You'll never make the north ridge before dark."
"I'll manage."
She narrowed her eyes.
"That's my line."
His mouth finally curved.
The widow looked toward the cabin.
Then at him.
"Coffee."
He raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Come inside."
She pointed toward the door.
"Coffee. Then you leave."
He considered.
"That an order?"
"Yes."
"Then yes, ma'am."
The cabin felt smaller when he entered.
The cowboy removed his hat.
Then ducked beneath the low crossbeam.
The widow suddenly became aware of every flaw in the room.
The chipped cup.
The worn rug.
The patched curtain.
The quilt her mother had sewn twenty years earlier.
The single chair with a repaired leg.
He looked around.