“This is a terrible time for modesty.”
He removed it.
That was the first time she saw the tattoos.
The cowboy on horseback on his left chest.
The woman’s portrait on his right.
She noticed but had no time to examine either.
A branch had cut his side.
Not deep enough to kill.
Deep enough to frighten.
She cleaned it.
Bandaged.
Made willow tea.
He watched her.
“You're shaking.”
“You're bleeding on my floor.”
“Your floor?”
“I've cleaned it more than you.”
“Fair.”
She pressed the bandage.
He winced.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“That proves you're alive.”
He almost laughed.
Then his eyes closed.
She stayed beside him all night.
At some point she fell asleep sitting against the bed.
She woke to his hand beneath her head so her neck would not bend against the wooden frame.
“You're awake.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Enough.”
“Why didn't you move?”
“You were sleeping.”
Her cheek rested against his palm.
The intimacy startled both.
She sat upright.
“Fever?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“Less.”
“Good.”
His hand returned to the blanket.
Neither mentioned what had happened.
The next week he avoided taking off his shirt.
She pretended not to notice.
Her curiosity about the tattoos remained.
Especially the portrait.
Something about it bothered her.
Familiar.
But she could not place why.
Then came the night everything changed.
The temperature dropped so far that water froze inside the kitchen overnight.
A chimney joint cracked.
Smoke filled part of the cabin.
Her bedroom became unusable while repairs dried.
The mountain cowboy pointed toward his bed.
“You take it.”
“And you?”
“Kitchen floor.”
She stared.
“You have stitches.”
“Mostly healed.”
“You limp.”
“Temporary.”
“You're impossible.”
“Frequently.”
She folded her arms.
“The bed fits two.”
His face became entirely unreadable.
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“No?”
“No.”
“Why?”
He looked away.
That was new.
She understood.
Slowly.
“Oh.”
His jaw tightened.
She smiled despite herself.
“The fearless mountain cowboy is afraid to share a bed?”
“Not afraid.”
“What then?”
“Practical.”
“You're a terrible liar.”
He stared.
She continued.
“We're adults.”
“Yes.”
“There's a quilt.”
“Yes.”
“Separate sides.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
He looked at her fully.
“Because I want you.”
Her smile vanished.
Silence.
The honesty felt almost physical.
He continued.
“And wanting you makes separate sides less simple.”
Her heart pounded.
She swallowed.
“Thank you.”
That clearly was not the response he expected.
“For what?”
“For not pretending.”
He nodded.
She looked toward the smoking hallway.