“There’s water behind the screen.”
He pointed toward a wooden partition.
“Clean shirt on the peg.”
“It won’t fit.”
“It stretches.”
She looked at the broad work shirt.
Then at him.
“Not that much.”
The mountain man smiled.
The woman gave him a warning look.
He stopped smiling.
Mostly.
She disappeared behind the partition.
Water poured.
Wet fabric hit the floor.
The mountain man stared at the ceiling.
He had spent twelve years alone.
Not entirely alone.
Men came through.
Traders.
Hunters.
Occasional timber crews.
Once a woman from town had stayed two nights after a winter storm.
Nothing happened.
His isolation was not punishment.
He preferred it.
People required explanations.
The forest required competence.
Competence was easier.
Then this woman had appeared chest-deep in mud and told him he was pulling incorrectly.
And she had been right.
Now she stood behind a thin wooden partition removing wet clothes.
The mountain man closed his eyes.
“Damn.”
From behind the screen:
“I heard that.”
“Wasn’t talking to you.”
“Who else is here?”
“The bear.”
She laughed.
The sound entered him unexpectedly.
He smiled.
Then the pain in his ribs returned.
He lay back.
When the woman emerged, she wore his shirt.
It did not close completely.
Two lower buttons remained open because her body refused the geometry of his clothing.
The sleeves were rolled.
Her wet hair hung loose down her back.
No pinned curls.
No town armor.
No careful arrangement.
The mountain man forgot every intelligent word he had ever learned.
The woman stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m injured.”
“That affects your manners?”
“Apparently.”
She crossed her arms.
The shirt strained slightly.
The mountain man looked rapidly toward the ceiling.
That made her smile.
“Hungry?”
“Yes.”
He sat.
“I’ll cook.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You can barely stand.”
“I’ve cooked sitting down.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that like you’re leaving.”
She stopped.
Rain began striking the cabin roof.
Hard.
The sound answered for her.
The trail would become dangerous.
Darkness approached.
She was not leaving.
The mountain man smiled faintly.
“One night.”
She looked at the rain.
“One.”
He nodded.
Neither believed it.
Dinner was beans, smoked venison, and bread hard enough that the woman accused it of being construction material.
The mountain man defended it.
She suggested he test it against his axe.
He said the axe had done nothing wrong.
They ate at the small table.
Silence became comfortable.
That frightened the woman more than conversation.
Comfort created openings.
Openings created attachment.
Attachment created loss.
She had learned that equation long before applied mechanics.
The mountain man broke the quiet.
“First honors.”
Her spoon stopped.
He did not look at her.
“I'm not asking.”