He was testing her.
That realization angered her enough to keep moving.
Her heavy body demanded more from every step.
Her thighs rubbed beneath the thick skirts.
Sweat soaked the back of her dress despite the cold.
Her lungs burned.
By the third mile, every breath sounded embarrassingly loud.
The Mountain Man never commented.
He also never slowed.
The Mountain Woman began hating his back.
Broad.
Straight.
Infuriatingly distant.
The trunk still rested on one shoulder.
He had not switched sides.
The Mountain Woman considered throwing a rock at him.
That fantasy carried her another half mile.
Then her boot caught a root.
The world tilted.
She went down hard.
Both palms struck gravel.
Pain tore through her hands.
Her knee hit next.
For several seconds, she remained on all fours.
Breathing.
Humiliated.
She heard the Mountain Man stop.
No footsteps returning.
No hand offered.
The Mountain Woman looked toward him.
He stood twenty feet uphill.
Watching.
Waiting.
She knew exactly what he expected.
Tears.
Complaint.
Defeat.
Apparently the other women had reached this point too.
Maybe one cried.
Maybe one demanded to return.
Maybe one simply realized no marriage was worth this.
The Mountain Woman looked at her palms.
Blood.
Small stones embedded in one cut.
Her knee hurt.
Her chest heaved.
She wanted to sit.
She wanted water.
She wanted somebody to say she had already proven enough.
Instead, she pushed herself upright.
Slowly.
Painfully.
The Mountain Man remained motionless.
The Mountain Woman wiped both hands against her apron.
Then walked past him.
She did not look at his face.
She only said:
“Keep up.”
For several seconds, no sound came from behind.
Then boots resumed.
The Mountain Woman smiled despite the pain.
He slowed after that.
Not obviously.
He would probably deny it.
But the trail changed from impossible to merely brutal.
Near sunset, the forest opened.
The cabin appeared against the slope.
One story.
Heavy logs.
Stone chimney.
Small barn.
Woodpile.
Springhouse farther downhill.
A crude corral.
Smoke did not rise from the chimney.
The Mountain Woman leaned against the porch post.
Her legs shook.
Every breath scraped.
The Mountain Man set the trunk down.
She expected him to finally acknowledge the climb.
Instead he opened the door.
“Inside.”
The Mountain Woman looked at him.
“You always this charming?”
“Yes.”
She laughed once.
He seemed confused by that.
Then disappeared inside.
The Mountain Woman followed.
The cabin smelled like a man who considered survival an adequate decorating philosophy.
Old smoke.
Leather.
Damp wool.
Grease.
Iron.
There was furniture.
Technically.
A heavy table.