“You need it.”
“I said no.”
He looked at her.
Then placed the tin cup back down.
“All right.”
Abigail stared.
That was it?
No persuasion?
No insistence?
No paternal lecture about what was best for her?
Simon sat again near the door.
She asked:
“How long?”
“Two days.”
Her eyes widened.
“I’ve been here two days?”
“Most of three.”
She immediately tried getting out of bed.
Pain shot through her feet.
Her knees failed.
Simon moved instinctively.
Abigail recoiled.
“Don’t!”
He stopped mid-step.
Abigail gripped the bedpost and breathed through the pain.
Simon lowered his hands.
“You’re not walking outside.”
“You don’t decide that.”
“No.”
His voice remained calm.
“The snow does.”
She looked toward the window.
The blizzard screamed against the cabin.
Simon continued:
“You want to stand, stand.”
“You want to crawl to the door, I won’t stop you.”
“But there’s four feet of snow outside and more coming.”
Abigail glared.
“You think you’re clever.”
“No.”
“I think winter is.”
Despite herself, she almost smiled.
She hated that.
Simon noticed.
Did not mention it.
After several minutes, Abigail surrendered to the mattress.
Her breathing slowed.
Simon said:
“You were nearly gone when I found you.”
She looked at him.
He continued.
“Your lips were blue.”
“Could barely find a pulse.”
Abigail looked away.
Maybe she should have died.
That thought had visited her before.
Never strongly enough to become intention.
Only exhaustion.
Her mother gone six years.
Father dead eight months.
Family property stripped apart.
Josiah buying one creditor after another until every road forward seemed to lead through him.
And finally the marriage.
Abigail asked quietly:
“How did you find me?”
“Mule stopped.”
“Why?”
“Probably smelled you.”
She looked offended.
Simon immediately realized.
“That sounded worse than I meant.”
For the first time, Abigail laughed.
Only once.
It hurt her throat.
Simon looked relieved.
“Green cloak helped.”
He nodded toward the emerald fabric drying near the stove.
“Snow is mostly white.”
“I had noticed.”
“Good.”
Another silence.
Then Simon asked:
“You running from the law?”
Abigail stiffened.
“Or a man?”
Her face answered before her mouth did.
Simon leaned back.
“A man.”
Abigail looked down.
“Yes.”
“Will he come looking?”
“Yes.”
Simon’s expression sharpened.
“Name?”
She hesitated.
Then:
“Josiah Sterling.”
The reaction was immediate.
Simon’s jaw tightened.
He sat straighter.
“You know him?”
“Know the name.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Simon rubbed one hand over his beard.
“Everybody with ore, timber, freight, or debt in this part of Montana knows Sterling.”