The Mountain Woman had been churning long enough to hate butter.
Not eating it.
Not cooking with it.
Not even making it under ordinary circumstances.
She specifically hated the pale, stubborn cream inside the wooden churn standing between her knees.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
The wooden dasher struck a steady rhythm against the thick cream.
At first, the sound had been almost pleasant.
A soft slosh.
Then a hollow thump.
Then another.
It had blended easily with the crackle of the fire, the hiss of the kettle, and the winter wind brushing snow against the cabin windows.
Forty minutes later, the same sound felt personal.
The Mountain Woman drove the dasher downward harder.
Cream splashed against the inside of the churn.
Nothing changed.
She lifted it.
Pressed down again.
Nothing.
The sleeves of her deep-blue dress had been rolled to her elbows.
Her white apron had already collected two spots of cream.
Several strands of dark-brown hair had escaped the loose bun at the back of her head and stuck to the damp skin beside her cheeks.
Her shoulders burned.
Her palms hurt.
Her patience had disappeared twenty minutes earlier.
The cream remained cream.
She stopped long enough to breathe.
Then lifted the churn lid slightly.
She looked inside.
Pale liquid.
No yellow flecks.
No gathering fat.
No sign that the past hour had accomplished anything.
The Mountain Woman stared.
“You hateful little thing.”
The cream offered no apology.
She lowered the lid.
Then heard boots behind her.
Heavy.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The Mountain Man entered from the mudroom carrying an armful of split firewood.
Snow dusted his dark hair and thick beard.
He wore rough brown trousers, heavy boots, and a fur-lined vest open across his bare chest because apparently chopping wood in freezing weather had convinced him clothing was optional.
The Mountain Woman noticed.
She immediately looked back at the churn.
That was becoming an irritating habit.
Noticing him.
Then pretending she had not.
The Mountain Man crossed the room.
He placed the firewood beside the hearth.
Another gust of wind rattled the window.
He turned.
The Mountain Woman resumed churning.
Up.
Down.
Harder.
The Mountain Man watched.
She could feel him watching without looking.
That irritated her too.
“What?”
Nothing.
She pushed the dasher again.
“What?”
she repeated.
The Mountain Man leaned one shoulder against the stone fireplace.
“How long?”
The Mountain Woman did not look at him.
“Long enough.”
“That isn’t a time.”
“It is today.”
A faint smile appeared beneath his beard.
The Mountain Woman saw it in the corner of her eye.
She increased the rhythm.
The Mountain Man said:
“You’re angry at cream.”
“I am not angry.”
The dasher hit the bottom hard.
The Mountain Man looked toward it.
“Of course.”
The Mountain Woman stopped.
She turned.
“You want to do it?”
He lifted both hands.
“No.”
“Then stop standing there looking wise.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m standing.”