One mine flooded after a contested water diversion.
By the time Abigail understood the pattern, her father was already ill.
Sterling arrived wearing sympathy like a tailored coat.
He purchased debt.
Extended time.
Paid medical bills.
Then after her father died, he brought Abigail a marriage proposal.
“It looked generous,” she said.
Simon’s jaw tightened.
“It was a purchase.”
“Yes.”
“What does he gain by marrying you?”
Abigail hesitated.
“I thought only the remaining property.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“My father kept secrets.”
“Mining secrets?”
“I don’t know.”
“Land?”
“Possibly.”
Simon looked toward the fire.
“Sterling doesn’t chase anything without profit.”
“I know.”
Abigail whispered:
“That’s what frightens me.”
By the end of the second week, she could walk around the cabin without pain.
The snow remained deep.
Simon went outside daily.
Checked traps.
Cut wood.
Fed his mule.
Abigail watched through the window.
He moved like someone built specifically for difficult places.
Heavy boots.
Dark coat.
Black hat.
Shoulders pushing through weather.
When he returned, snow clung to his beard.
Abigail began waiting for the sound of his boots on the porch.
That realization frightened her.
She had spent months waiting for Josiah’s arrival with dread.
Now she waited for Simon with anticipation.
Same action.
Completely different feeling.
One afternoon, he returned carrying something wrapped in cloth.
“What is that?”
“Problem.”
He placed the bundle near the stove.
Inside was a small barn owl.
One wing drooped.
Abigail gasped.
“Is it alive?”
“Wouldn’t bring it in dead.”
Simon sat carefully.
His enormous hands moved around the bird with astonishing gentleness.
Abigail watched.
The owl snapped its beak.
Simon murmured:
“Mean little thing.”
“You’re holding it wrong.”
He looked at her.
“You know owls?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I know injured creatures don’t appreciate being insulted.”
Simon smiled.
“Fair.”
He examined the wing.
No obvious break.
Perhaps bruised.
Abigail brought cloth.
Together they made a box.
The owl stayed three days.
Simon fed it bits of meat.
On the fourth morning, it flew.
Abigail stood beside him outside the cabin.
Snow glittered beneath the sun.
The owl disappeared between pines.
Abigail whispered:
“You could have kept it.”
Simon looked toward her.
“Why?”
“You saved it.”
“That doesn’t make it mine.”
Abigail turned.
Simon seemed unaware of what he had just said.
Her throat tightened.
You saved it.
That doesn’t make it mine.
No philosophy Josiah ever spoke had contained that idea.
The weather improved enough that Simon could take her toward town.
He did not.
Not immediately.
Because riders appeared on the lower trail.
Two men.
They never approached the cabin.
Simply watched from a distant ridge.
Simon noticed first.
He moved Abigail away from the window.
“Friends?”
“No.”
“Sterling?”
“Maybe.”
That night, Simon slept with his rifle beside him.
Abigail did not sleep.