The first whispers began before they reached her small cabin.
A shopkeeper stared.
Two women outside the bakery stopped speaking.
A group of lumbermen grinned.
One called:
“Mountain finally find something strong enough to keep him warm?”
Laughter.
The woman’s body stiffened.
Before the mountain man could move, she turned.
“Careful.”
The lumberman smiled.
“About what?”
She looked him over slowly.
“I’ve repaired pulleys with more useful weight than you.”
Someone laughed.
At him.
Not her.
The lumberman’s smile vanished.
The mountain man looked delighted.
Inside her cabin, shelves covered the walls.
Herbs.
Jars.
Books.
Tools.
The mountain man noticed the tools immediately.
Not healer’s tools.
Calipers.
Drawing compass.
Small level.
Measuring chain.
Drafting ruler.
A brass plumb bob.
He touched nothing.
“You kept them.”
She followed his gaze.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told myself because good tools should not be wasted.”
“And actually?”
She looked at the drafting instruments.
“Because leaving mathematics was harder than leaving Boston.”
The mountain man nodded.
Then noticed papers beneath a cloth.
Mechanical drawings.
He lifted one corner.
She immediately covered them.
“No.”
He stepped back.
“Sorry.”
Her reaction had been instinctive.
She regretted it.
Not enough to reveal them.
“Go home.”
He looked at her.
“That abrupt?”
“Yes.”
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Because she wanted him to stay.
That was precisely why.
“Because your cabin needs you.”
“It survived twelve years.”
“Then it knows how.”
The mountain man understood something.
He did not expose it.
“Fine.”
He opened the door.
Then stopped.
“I’ll come tomorrow.”
She almost said no.
Instead:
“Bring my shirt.”
He smiled.
“Thought you hated it.”
“I hate owing you clothing.”
“Goodnight, healer.”
“Goodnight.”
After he left, the woman stood behind the closed door for a long time.
Then pressed both hands over her face.
“This is ridiculous.”
It became more ridiculous over the following weeks.
He came often.
Sometimes injured.
Often not.
He brought venison.
She traded salves.
He repaired her roof.
She recalculated the pulley system for his wood hoist.
He claimed his old system worked.
She proved it required nearly forty percent more force than necessary.
He accused her of insulting the pulley.
She accused him of sentimental attachment to inefficient machinery.
They argued constantly.
People noticed constantly.
And gradually the woman noticed something else.
The mountain man did not hide that he knew her.
When they passed people in town, he walked beside her.
Not ahead.
Not behind.
When someone joked about her size, his expression changed before hers did.
She eventually told him:
“Stop looking like you want to murder people.”