He almost smiled.
Abigail took another bite.
Then another.
Simon noticed.
“You hate it but you’re eating.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Could admit it’s acceptable.”
“It isn’t.”
That afternoon, Abigail took over supper.
Simon protested because she still tired easily.
She ignored him.
He had venison.
Onions.
Potatoes.
A little dried thyme.
Flour.
Butter.
Abigail made stew and rough biscuits.
Not elegant.
No cream.
No proper spice cabinet.
Still, when Simon tasted it, his eyes closed briefly.
Abigail smiled.
“That bad?”
He opened them.
“No.”
“Then?”
“I forgot food could taste like somebody meant it.”
The sentence struck deeper than he intended.
Abigail looked away.
Simon understood.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
She stirred the pot.
“My mother used to say food was the first proof a house expected you to come back.”
Simon became still.
Abigail immediately regretted sharing something intimate.
Then he said:
“She sounds smart.”
“She was.”
No questions.
No prying.
Again.
Simon ate three bowls.
Abigail pretended not to notice.
Days accumulated.
Snow softened.
The cabin became less foreign.
She learned Simon had lived there twelve years.
Trapped beaver in younger days.
Guided survey parties.
Worked mining claims.
Raised mules.
Cut timber.
Never married.
No children.
No nearby family.
He had built the cabin himself.
The books near the stove surprised her.
Shakespeare.
A Bible.
A battered geology manual.
Two novels.
A veterinary guide.
“You read?”
Simon looked offended.
“I have eyes.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
Abigail smiled.
“I apologize.”
“Accepted.”
She picked up the geology manual.
“You worked mines?”
“Some.”
“Sterling’s?”
“Once.”
Her fingers stopped.
Simon saw.
“Three months.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Didn’t like the way he paid.”
“What does that mean?”
Simon sat opposite her.
“He paid wages late.”
“Charged men for equipment they didn’t break.”
“Bought supplies through his own stores at inflated prices.”
“Kept debt attached to workers so they couldn’t leave easily.”
Abigail’s face tightened.
“He did the same to my father.”
Simon’s eyes lifted.
“How?”
That was the first time she told him.
Her father had owned two small silver claims and extensive water rights near a growing mining district.
Not wealthy enough to threaten Josiah Sterling.
Useful enough to interest him.
Sterling offered partnership.
Her father refused.
Then shipments were delayed.
Credit tightened.
A processing mill suddenly increased rates.
A bank called one loan.
Then another.