Curtains appeared.
Simple.
Plain.
Blue.
The Mountain Man stared when he entered.
“What are those?”
“Curtains.”
“Why?”
“Windows.”
He stared.
The Mountain Woman waited.
Finally:
“Fine.”
The next day, he adjusted the rod because one hung crooked.
He claimed it bothered him.
She said nothing.
A rug appeared.
He complained.
Then stood on it every morning because the floor was cold.
Shelves appeared after the Mountain Woman mentioned storage.
He built them without being asked twice.
A larger worktable appeared.
She loved it.
Then one afternoon, a chair disappeared.
The Mountain Woman noticed.
“Where’s the chair?”
“Which?”
“The one that sounds like it’s dying every time I sit.”
“Firewood.”
She stared.
“You burned the chair?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Bad chair.”
Two days later, he brought in another.
Heavy oak.
Wide seat.
Reinforced legs.
The Mountain Woman looked at it.
Then at him.
“You built this.”
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Needed chair.”
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
The Mountain Man became uncomfortable.
She sat.
The chair did not move.
Not a sound.
She ran one hand over the armrest.
Smooth.
He had sanded it carefully.
The Mountain Woman looked up.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
Then walked outside before she could see the color rising beneath his beard.
She smiled for the rest of the afternoon.
Winter settled completely.
Town became difficult to reach.
Snow closed the upper trail for days at a time.
Isolation intensified everything.
Their arguments.
Their laughter.
Their awareness of each other.
The Mountain Woman discovered the Mountain Man sometimes sang while repairing tack in the barn.
Badly.
Terribly.
She mentioned it once.
He stopped singing for three days.
She regretted it.
Then deliberately began singing badly while making bread.
He stared.
She continued louder.
Eventually he understood.
The next afternoon, she heard his voice in the barn again.
Still terrible.
Perfect.
Physical awareness grew too.
That part neither discussed.
The Mountain Man often worked without a shirt indoors because he claimed the cabin was too warm.
The Mountain Woman suspected he simply hated shirts.
His body carried scars.
Shoulder.
Ribs.
Chest.
One long pale line near his side.
She wondered about each.
Never asked.
He never asked why she sometimes avoided mirrors when dressing.
Neither needed every wound explained immediately.
One evening, she reached above a shelf for a crock.
Could not reach.
The Mountain Man came behind.
His body nearly touched hers.
One arm extended over her head.
He retrieved the crock.
The Mountain Woman turned too quickly.
Suddenly they were face-to-face.