His eyes moved over her.
Face.
Shoulders.
Arms.
Waist.
Hips.
Boots.
The Mountain Woman’s jaw tightened.
She knew that look.
Men had evaluated her body her entire life.
Usually the calculation ended with disappointment.
Sometimes mockery.
Occasionally unwanted fascination.
The Mountain Man’s expression revealed nothing.
Finally he said:
“You’re the bride.”
His voice sounded exactly as she expected.
Deep.
Rough.
Unused.
The Mountain Woman folded her arms.
“I was told there would be a man.”
His eyebrows moved.
Barely.
She continued:
“I assume that’s you.”
A man near the mercantile coughed to hide a laugh.
The Mountain Man looked toward him.
The laughter died.
Then he looked back.
“You’re bigger than the photograph.”
The Mountain Woman’s face hardened.
“So are you.”
Silence.
Then:
“Photographer lied.”
“Mine did too.”
That tiny flicker crossed his eyes.
Not quite amusement.
Close.
The Mountain Woman added:
“If you intend to reject me here, do it before I haul that trunk anywhere.”
The Mountain Man looked toward the trunk.
“What’s in it?”
“Cookware.”
“All that?”
“Cast iron.”
“Why?”
“Because thin pans burn food.”
Another flicker.
He reached down.
Lifted the trunk onto one shoulder.
The Mountain Woman blinked.
Two men had struggled to load it onto the stagecoach.
The Mountain Man carried it as though filled with blankets.
He turned toward the distant trail.
“Keep up.”
Then started walking.
The Mountain Woman stared after him.
No greeting.
No offer to rest.
No wagon.
Nothing.
A woman outside the mercantile whispered:
“Here we go again.”
The Mountain Woman turned.
The woman looked embarrassed.
The Mountain Woman asked:
“How far?”
“Cabin?”
“Yes.”
The local woman looked toward the mountains.
“Six miles.”
The Mountain Woman stared.
“Up?”
The woman nodded.
“Mostly.”
The Mountain Woman looked toward the disappearing Mountain Man.
Then at her muddy boots.
Then toward the mercantile.
Everyone watched.
Waiting.
The easiest thing would have been to demand transport.
The wiser thing might have been to return east.
The comfortable thing would certainly have been to sit down.
Instead, the Mountain Woman tightened the strap of her satchel.
Then followed him.
The first mile was unpleasant.
The second became punishment.
The trail climbed almost continuously.
Loose stone shifted beneath her boots.
Tree roots crossed the path like traps.
Cold air that felt refreshing in town became sharp inside her lungs.
The Mountain Man maintained the same pace.
Not fast for him.
Brutal for her.
The Mountain Woman understood after twenty minutes.
This was deliberate.