“Twelve years.”
She turned toward him.
Even in darkness she could see the outline of his face.
“Twelve?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His voice changed.
“My wife died.”
The woman stopped.
There it was.
His hidden room.
She said nothing.
The mountain man continued because she did not force him.
“Winter fever.”
“Town doctor couldn’t reach us.”
“I tried everything.”
“She died before morning.”
“I buried her under the cedar above the creek.”
The woman’s hand moved.
Not intentional.
Her fingers touched his forearm.
He did not pull away.
“I’m sorry.”
“I hate those words.”
“So do I.”
Silence.
Then:
“Keep your hand there.”
The woman did.
Nothing more happened.
That was what made it intimate.
Morning brought clear air and embarrassment.
The woman woke with one hand resting against the mountain man’s chest.
His arm circled her waist.
Her back was pressed against him.
Both were fully clothed.
Still, her entire body became aware before her mind caught up.
She moved.
His arm tightened instinctively.
Then he woke.
Their eyes met.
“Morning.”
Her face heated.
“Move your arm.”
He did.
Immediately.
Too immediately.
She missed the warmth the moment it left.
That irritated her.
She stood.
“I need my clothes.”
“Still wet.”
“I can walk in yours.”
The mountain man looked at her.
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“That sounded possessive.”
“It was practical.”
“How?”
“That shirt barely survived breakfast yesterday.”
She threw a rolled cloth at him.
He laughed.
By noon, she was still there.
His injury needed treatment.
That was the excuse.
By evening, still there.
Rain had damaged the trail.
Another excuse.
Next morning, she tried leaving.
The mountain man walked with her.
At the bog, they stopped.
Her basket remained half buried.
He used a hooked branch to retrieve what he could.
The brass knife was gone.
Several roots lost.
Most bark ruined.
The woman stared at the place where she had almost disappeared.
The mountain man watched her.
“You don’t have to cross there again.”
“I know.”
“There’s another trail.”
“Longer.”
“Safer.”
She looked at him.
“You always choose safer?”
“No.”
His eyes moved over her face.
“Apparently not.”
Her breath caught.
He looked away first.
They reached the edge of town by afternoon.
The woman stopped before the first buildings.
“You don’t have to come farther.”
“I know.”
“You keep answering that.”
“You keep telling me things I already know.”
People noticed them.
Of course.
A plus-size healer walking beside the mountain recluse.
His shirt on her body.
His overshirt draped around her shoulders.
Mud stains.
Interesting.