Enough.
For months, they had been carefully walking around exactly that question.
Neither wanted to be the first person foolish enough to answer.
The Mountain Man stepped closer.
His chest nearly touched her shoulder.
The Mountain Woman’s breathing became annoyingly noticeable.
He said:
“No.”
She should have moved.
She did not.
The fire cracked behind them.
Snow whispered against the windows.
The cabin seemed suddenly too small.
The Mountain Woman looked at the churn.
“What’s the trick?”
His thumb moved once across the back of her hand.
Almost absentmindedly.
Then he released her.
The absence of his touch felt larger than it should have.
He walked toward the stove.
The Mountain Woman watched.
The Mountain Man lifted a small crock.
Warm water.
He carried it back.
His mother had taught him this when he was young.
Cream could be temperamental.
Too cold, and the butter might take forever.
Too warm, and the texture could suffer.
His mother never measured temperature with anything except her hand.
She touched the churn.
Listened.
Watched.
Then adjusted.
Sometimes a little warm water around the outside of the vessel.
Sometimes moving the churn closer to the stove.
Sometimes simply patience.
The Mountain Woman looked skeptical.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“No special herb?”
“No.”
“No prayer?”
“My mother usually prayed after somebody ignored her.”
The Mountain Woman smiled despite herself.
“That sounds useful.”
“It was mostly threatening.”
He placed the crock beside the churn.
Then helped her warm the wood gradually.
Not enough to heat the cream.
Only enough to bring the temperature into a friendlier range.
The Mountain Woman watched him.
His movements were slow.
Careful.
He treated the task the same way he treated horses.
Tools.
Fire.
Anything that could be ruined by forcing it.
The Mountain Woman had noticed that about him long before she wanted to admit she noticed anything.
The Mountain Man rarely rushed.
He did not confuse strength with violence.
He could lift a feed sack one-handed.
Split oak.
Drag logs.
Wrestle a frightened horse into calm.
Yet he handled fragile things like they mattered.
Eggs.
Glass jars.
A cracked teacup.
Her.
Especially her.
That was becoming difficult.
The Mountain Man tested the churn again.
“Try.”
The Mountain Woman gripped the dasher.
Up.
Down.
Slower now.
The Mountain Man stood beside her.
Not behind.
Still close.
The sound changed slightly after several minutes.
The Mountain Woman paused.
He looked at her.
“You heard it?”
She nodded.
The smooth slosh had become uneven.
He smiled.
“There.”
The Mountain Woman resumed.
Up.
Down.
The heavier rhythm grew.