"You shouldn't have been at the creek."
Her eyes narrowed.
"How do you know?"
"I saw the tracks."
He shut the door.
Then looked around.
Empty bucket.
Low fire.
Wet coat.
Her hands.
His expression changed.
He said nothing.
He simply moved.
Wood into stove.
Kettle closer.
Blanket from chair.
The widow watched.
"I can do that."
"I know."
He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders anyway.
She did not resist.
That told him more than anything.
He knelt.
Took her hands.
Her breath caught.
His palms were warm.
He rubbed her fingers carefully.
"Can you feel them?"
"Yes."
"Pain?"
"Some."
"Good."
She frowned.
"Good?"
"Pain means they're warming."
He continued rubbing.
The widow stared at his bowed head.
His hair was wet with melted snow.
His shoulders filled most of her view.
"You rode fifteen miles."
"Closer to eighteen in this."
"Why?"
He looked up.
"Because I knew you'd try to handle it alone."
Her jaw tightened automatically.
He added:
"And because I'm tired of pretending that's admirable."
She tried to pull her hands back.
He released immediately.
"Don't."
She stared.
"Don't what?"
"Turn this into an argument because you're scared."
Her eyes flashed.
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified."
"Of the storm?"
"No."
Silence.
The cowboy stood.
The widow looked away.
He took off his coat.
Hung it beside the stove.
"Pump froze?"
"Yes."
"I'll fix it when wind drops."
"It may not."
"Then I'll haul water."
"You can't stay."
He looked at her.
"Why?"
Because she wanted him to.
Because hearing his voice inside the cabin made the storm feel farther away.
Because she could imagine morning coffee.
His boots beside hers.
His coat on the peg.
Because she had begun imagining things she had sworn never to imagine again.
"You have your own ranch."
"My foreman can handle it."
"Your cattle."
"Fed."
"Your house."
"Empty."
The word landed heavily.
She looked at him.
He continued.
"I'm staying."
"You don't decide that."
"Then tell me to leave."
She opened her mouth.
He waited.
The widow hated him for waiting.
Hated that he would actually go if she said it.
Hated that the choice remained hers.
"Stay."
His expression softened.
She added quickly:
"Until the weather clears."
"Of course."
They both knew she was lying.
The storm continued through the night.
The cowboy slept in the chair.
Or pretended to.
The widow lay in bed listening to the wind.
At two in the morning, she heard him add wood to the stove.
At four, he went outside to check the animals.
At dawn, he brought snow inside to melt.
By afternoon he had the pump functioning enough to draw a trickle.
He worked without asking for praise.
She cooked stew.
They ate at the table.
Snow pressed against the windows.
The whole world had become the cabin.
That evening the widow poured whiskey.
"You drink?"
He looked at the glass.
"Sometimes."
"Tonight qualifies."
He smiled.
"That it does."
They sat near the stove.
The widow pulled a blanket around her legs.
The cowboy loosened the top button of his shirt.