“I do not complain.”
He stared.
She corrected herself.
“Frequently.”
He went back to brushing the horse.
“Keep it.”
She did.
Black Pine expected her to return by Christmas.
She did not.
Christmas arrived under three feet of snow.
The ranch hands had gone to families before the pass closed.
Only the woman and mountain cowboy remained.
She baked apple cake from preserved fruit.
He produced a package.
Inside was a hair comb carved from dark wood.
Small flowers along the edge.
She stared.
“You bought this?”
“Made it.”
Her fingers stopped.
“When?”
“Nights.”
She looked at him.
The Black Ridge Wolf.
Three dead men.
Maybe five.
Carving flowers by lamplight.
“Why?”
His face became uncomfortable.
“Your hair keeps falling into the bread.”
She laughed.
“Of course.”
He looked relieved.
She gave him a ledger.
New.
Leather cover.
His name embossed in crude hand-tooled lettering.
He ran one thumb across it.
“You made this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your accounting methods offend God.”
His mouth twitched.
“Thank you.”
After Christmas, something changed.
Not enough to name.
Enough to feel.
The mountain cowboy began staying in the kitchen after supper.
He read while she sewed.
Sometimes neither spoke for an hour.
Silence with him did not feel empty.
That surprised her.
One evening she caught him looking at her.
Not her face.
Her body.
His eyes immediately returned upward.
There was no smirk.
No disgust.
Something else.
She knew that look too.
Want.
Her needle stopped.
He looked away.
Interesting.
The next several days became uncomfortable.
Not because he changed.
Because she had.
She noticed his hands.
His shoulders.
The way his shirt stretched when he lifted wood.
The line of his beard.
The scar beside his mouth.
She became irritated with herself.
He was her employer.
A frightening mountain hermit.
Possibly murderer.
Definitely bad accountant.
This was not sensible.
Then the storm came.
A mare disappeared from the lower pasture.
The mountain cowboy went after her before noon.
Snow began unexpectedly.
By four, visibility disappeared.
The woman stood at the window.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
No horse.
She lit another lamp.
At eight she put on boots.
Then stopped.
Going alone would create two emergencies.
She hated logic.
At nine, something struck the door.
She opened it.
The mountain cowboy fell inside.
Blood darkened his shirt.
“God.”
“Horse found.”
“That is your concern?”
“She’s in barn.”
He attempted standing.
Failed.
The woman dragged him toward the fire.
He was heavy.
Incredibly.
She managed.
“Shirt.”
“What?”
“Off.”
He looked at her.