“You’re doing it smugly.”
That made him laugh.
Low.
Warm.
Entirely too pleasant.
The Mountain Woman hated that laugh almost as much as the cream.
Mostly because she liked it.
She turned back.
Up.
Down.
The Mountain Man came closer.
His boots moved across the rough plank floor.
She kept working.
He stopped directly behind her.
Too close.
The heat of the fire was on one side.
His body on the other.
The Mountain Woman’s rhythm slowed despite herself.
The Mountain Man looked into the churn.
Then placed one large hand against the wooden side.
His expression changed.
“There.”
The Mountain Woman frowned.
“There what?”
“Too cold.”
“It came from the pantry.”
“Exactly.”
“That is where cream goes.”
“Yes.”
“Then why is it too cold?”
He looked at her.
“Because winter exists.”
The Mountain Woman stared.
He smiled.
She narrowed her eyes.
“I know winter exists.”
“Good.”
“Move.”
Instead of moving, he leaned closer.
His hand remained against the churn.
The Mountain Woman looked straight ahead.
He smelled like cold air, split wood, smoke, and the faint clean scent of lye soap.
None of those things should have been distracting.
Together, they were.
The Mountain Man said quietly:
“You’re trying to beat butter into surrender.”
“It deserves it.”
“Won’t work.”
“I’ve made butter before.”
“I know.”
“Then stop explaining butter to me.”
“You’ve been doing this almost an hour.”
The Mountain Woman finally turned her head.
Their faces were closer than she expected.
The Mountain Man did not move away.
Neither did she.
His eyes dropped briefly toward her mouth.
Then returned.
The Mountain Woman’s hand tightened around the dasher.
The Mountain Man spoke more softly.
“Cream gets too cold, the fat stays stubborn.”
She swallowed.
“Stubborn.”
“Yes.”
“Sounds familiar.”
His smile returned.
“So does working until your arms nearly fall off instead of asking for help.”
The Mountain Woman looked away.
“That sounds nothing like me.”
“Of course not.”
His hand moved from the side of the churn.
For a second, she thought he would step away.
Instead, he placed it over her hand on the wooden dasher.
The Mountain Woman stopped breathing normally.
His palm completely covered the back of her hand.
Warm.
Rough.
Callused.
The Mountain Man lowered the dasher slowly.
“Not so hard.”
She stared at his hand.
“I know how to churn.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you touching my hand?”
His voice dropped.
“Because you keep trying to break the churn.”
The Mountain Woman looked at him.
“That the only reason?”
Silence.
The question had escaped before she could stop it.
The Mountain Man’s expression changed.
Not much.