Finally Martha said:
“You’ve been touching that timber since breakfast.”
Elias looked down.
“It isn’t finished.”
“It has been finished since dinner.”
“Dinner was yesterday.”
“You know what I mean.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
She saw it.
“You do remember how.”
“How what?”
“Smile.”
His expression vanished immediately.
Martha laughed.
“Gone again.”
Elias set the plane down.
“That what you came out here to discuss?”
“No.”
“What then?”
Martha moved even closer.
Her cream blouse was plain, soft, and open enough at the neckline to be more feminine than anything she had dared wear in town.
She had almost changed before coming outside.
Almost put on the brown shawl.
Almost covered herself because years of habit whispered that a woman her size had no right to attract attention intentionally.
Then she looked in the small bedroom mirror and became angry.
Not at Elias.
At every voice she had carried inside herself long after the people who spoke them were gone.
So she left the shawl behind.
Elias noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His eyes dropped for half a second before returning respectfully to her face.
That single movement warmed her more than open praise would have.
Martha placed one large hand on the timber beam.
“Everyone in town says you’re impossible to understand.”
“They’re probably right.”
“I don’t think so.”
Elias looked toward her hand.
Martha slowly slid it closer.
Her fingers touched his.
His entire body became still.
The mountain wind moved around them.
Somewhere below, a hammer struck three times.
A horse snorted near the corral.
Elias did not pull away.
Neither did Martha.
His voice changed when he finally spoke.
Lower.
Rougher.
“I’ve spent a long time believing I shouldn’t want someone standing this close.”
Martha’s chest tightened.
“Why?”
He gave her a look.
Because of course she knew.
Everyone knew pieces.
Elias Thorne had lived alone in the mountains for nearly nine years.
He had once had a wife.
And a son.
Fever took the boy first.
His wife followed during the same winter.
People said Elias buried them himself because snow blocked the road to the settlement cemetery.
Afterward, something inside him closed.
He stopped attending church.
Stopped drinking at the saloon.
Stopped staying in town after selling timber.
The wild country suited grief.
Trees did not ask a man how he was doing.
Rivers did not expect recovery.
Martha had never asked about his family directly.
She had waited.
Now Elias looked toward the unfinished cabin wall.
“I had people once.”
“I know.”
“I thought I’d used up whatever right I had to want that again.”
Martha stared.
“You think love is rationed?”
He looked back.
“I think some men get more than they deserve.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Elias looked down.
Martha turned his hand beneath hers.
Their palms met.
His was rough.
Hers was soft but broad, heavy, warm.
She intertwined their fingers.
His breath changed.
“I’ve spent most of my life being told I take up too much room,” she whispered.
Elias looked at her immediately.
Martha continued before courage disappeared.
“Too much chair.”
“Too much carriage.”
“Too much fabric.”
“Too much food.”