“Yes.”
“Were they wrong?”
“Sometimes.”
The girl frowned.
The Mountain Man continued:
“People can notice something real and still misunderstand what it means.”
He pointed toward himself.
“I am big.”
She nodded.
“I have scars.”
Another nod.
“I can be dangerous.”
The girl looked uncertain.
Her father smiled faintly.
“But those things aren’t all I am.”
He looked toward her.
“And whatever that boy noticed about you isn't all you are either.”
Their daughter became quiet.
The Mountain Woman stood nearby with tears in her eyes.
The Mountain Man noticed.
Of course he did.
He looked toward her.
She mouthed:
Good.
He smiled.
That night, after the children slept, the Mountain Woman sat in his lap beside the fire again.
Older now.
Heavier in some places.
Softer in others.
Silver beginning near her temples.
The Mountain Man’s beard had turned more gray than brown.
The chair beneath them was not the original one.
That unfortunate piece of furniture had finally surrendered years earlier.
The replacement was built like a bridge.
The Mountain Woman had mocked him for it.
Then used it every night.
She rested against his chest.
The Mountain Man’s arms circled her naturally.
No trembling.
No fear.
The Mountain Woman looked toward the fire.
“Do you ever think about that night?”
“Yes.”
“The gunshot?”
“No.”
She turned.
“What then?”
His eyes lowered toward her.
“You.”
She smiled.
“Which part?”
“You sitting on me while I tried very hard not to lose my mind.”
The Mountain Woman laughed.
“You looked terrified.”
“I was.”
“You kept saying you were too big.”
“I was foolish.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Was?”
The Mountain Man sighed.
“Am occasionally foolish.”
“Better.”
He kissed her forehead.
After a moment, she asked:
“If that gunshot never happened, what would you have done?”
The Mountain Man considered.
His hand moved slowly along her waist.
Then he smiled.
“Probably spent another ten minutes pretending I had self-control.”
She laughed.
“Coward.”
“Yes.”
The Mountain Woman rested her head against him again.
Outside, snow covered the old trail where armed men had once approached the cabin.
Trees had grown thicker.
The scars on the door had long ago been repaired.
Most people who knew the original feud were gone.
The world had moved on.
That was how the Mountain Woman preferred it.
The past remained true without being allowed to own the present.
One summer, many years later, the Mountain Man became ill.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing violent.
Time simply began asking for payment.
His joints hurt.
His breathing became heavier after long walks.
He could no longer carry what he once carried without resting.