The Mountain Man had survived things other men turned into legends.
He had crossed frozen passes alone, slept beneath rock ledges while wolves moved somewhere beyond the firelight, carried injured cattle through snow deep enough to bury his knees, and walked away from confrontations that left entire saloons whispering his name afterward.
None of that frightened him as much as the woman sitting on his lap.
The Mountain Woman rested one hand against his bare chest.
His heart hammered beneath her palm.
She could feel it.
That almost made her smile.
This enormous man, the one half of Wyoming treated like a storm given human shape, was terrified.
Of her.
Not because she threatened him.
Because she did not.
Because she trusted him.
Outside, wind screamed down from the mountains and struck the cabin walls hard enough to make the old timbers groan.
Snow pressed against the windows.
Orange firelight moved across the Mountain Man’s face, illuminating the scar along one cheek and another pale mark disappearing beneath the edge of his open fur vest.
He sat rigidly in a heavy wooden chair beside the fireplace.
Both hands gripped the armrests.
He refused to touch her.
The Mountain Woman shifted slightly on his lap.
Every muscle beneath her tightened.
She noticed.
“So this is the great terror of Wyoming?”
The Mountain Man’s jaw clenched.
“Woman.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Man.”
His eyes narrowed.
The Mountain Woman’s mouth curved.
That was how they had always spoken when emotion became too dangerous.
Jokes.
Sharp little challenges.
Anything except the truth.
Not tonight.
She touched the side of his face.
His beard was rough beneath her fingers.
“Look at me.”
He did.
Barely.
His gaze moved over her face, her loose dark hair, the plain cream dress falling heavily around her body, and the brown shawl slipping from one shoulder.
He looked away again.
The Mountain Woman caught his chin gently.
“No.”
His eyes returned.
She said:
“You spent two months avoiding me.”
“I was busy.”
She laughed.
“You rebuilt the same shed door three times.”
“It needed work.”
“The hinge was straight the first time.”
The Mountain Man said nothing.
She leaned closer.
“You stopped eating supper at the table.”
Silence.
“You started sleeping in the barn twice a week.”
His breathing changed.
“You leave the room if I’m brushing my hair.”
He frowned.
“That is not true.”
“Yesterday you walked outside during a blizzard.”
“I needed wood.”
“The wood box was full.”
He glanced toward it.
Unfortunately, the wood box remained full.
The Mountain Woman smiled.
“Caught.”
The Mountain Man looked almost offended.
Then his expression darkened again.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.”
He finally released one armrest.
Not to touch her.
He lifted his hand and rubbed his face.
The Mountain Woman watched.
The scar across his knuckles had reopened slightly.
Three nights earlier, two drunken ranch hands had cornered her behind the general store after she refused their invitation to drink.
Nothing had happened to her.
The Mountain Man had arrived too quickly.
The two men had not understood who they were provoking until he stepped between them and the Mountain Woman.
Even then, one laughed.
That laughter lasted only a moment.
The Mountain Woman had not seen everything after that.
She had turned away when one man fell against a barrel and the other decided running was wiser.
The Mountain Man had escorted her home in silence.
Then avoided her completely.
Now she finally understood.
He had not been ashamed.