Mara woke to the smell of coffee and the unsettling realization that she did not know where she was.
For one breathless second, panic surged through her.
Then memory returned.
The storm.
The walk.
Rowan Hale.
She opened her eyes.
Gray morning light slipped through the small cabin window.
Snow still struck the glass, but the wind sounded slightly less violent.
Mara lay beneath heavy quilts on Rowan’s bed.
She immediately pushed herself upright.
Rowan sat at the table sharpening a knife.
“You’re awake.”
Mara looked at the bed.
Then at him.
“You put me here?”
“You were asleep.”
“You could have woken me.”
“I tried.”
Her cheeks warmed.
“How long did I sleep?”
“Eight hours.”
“Eight?”
“You needed it.”
Mara placed a hand on her stomach.
The baby moved.
Strongly.
She released a breath.
Rowan’s eyes flicked toward her hand.
“The baby?”
“Moving.”
His shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly.
“Good.”
Mara watched him.
“You were worried.”
“No.”
“You were.”
“I was aware of the situation.”
“That sounds a lot like worried.”
He returned to sharpening the knife.
“Coffee?”
Mara smiled faintly.
“Yes.”
He poured some into a tin cup, diluted it slightly and brought it over.
“Not too much.”
“Now you’re a doctor?”
“No. But I’m capable of listening when other people talk.”
She accepted the cup.
“Thank you.”
Rowan nodded once.
During daylight, the cabin seemed less frightening than Mara expected.
Everything had a purpose.
Shelves of preserved vegetables.
Sacks of flour.
Dried meat.
Tools hung neatly.
A rifle above the door.
Wood stacked against one wall.
Rowan Hale might have avoided civilization, but he had not abandoned order.
Mara noticed another bedroll near the stove.
“You slept there?”
“Yes.”
“You could have used your own bed.”
“You needed warmth.”
“I could have used the bedroll.”
“No.”
The firmness of the answer ended the conversation.
After breakfast, Mara asked when she could return to North Ridge.
Rowan looked toward the window.
“You’re not going anywhere today.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“No.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“How?”
“Snow’s still falling.”
Mara frowned.
“I can’t simply stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because this is your home.”
“And?”
“And I’m practically a stranger.”
“You walked more than a mile through a blizzard while seven months pregnant.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“It tells me you’re stubborn enough to be dangerous.”
Mara almost smiled.
“I’ll leave when the weather clears.”
“Yes.”
The weather did not clear.
One night became two.
Two became four.
Mara had never spent so much uninterrupted time with someone who spoke so little.
At first, Rowan’s silence made her nervous.
Then she discovered something unexpected.
His silence was not punishment.
It did not demand that she entertain him.
It did not mean anger.
Sometimes Rowan simply had nothing to say.
Mara found that strangely peaceful.
He taught her to keep the stove burning longer by controlling the draft.
He showed her how to melt snow safely without wasting fuel.
He explained where he stored dried beans, smoked venison and potatoes.
When she tried carrying an armful of wood one afternoon, he took half of it.
“I can manage.”
“I know.”
“Then stop taking things from me.”
“I’m carrying wood, not your dignity.”
Mara stared at him.
Rowan continued toward the stove.
She followed.
“That sounded almost wise.”
“Don’t spread it around.”
Mara laughed.
It surprised both of them.
Her grief had not disappeared.
Laughter did not betray Daniel.
But sometimes it still felt like it might.
That evening she sat near the fire sewing a tear in one of Rowan’s shirts.
He noticed.
“What are you doing?”
“Repairing this.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.”
“You don’t owe me work.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Mara looked up.
“Because the sleeve is nearly falling off.”
He looked at the shirt.
“That’s fair.”
Slowly, something shifted between them.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Trust.
Mara learned Rowan liked his coffee almost painfully strong.
Rowan learned Mara hated silence during thunderstorms but liked it almost everywhere else.
Mara learned he had once worked cattle in Wyoming before settling near Iron Hollow.
Rowan learned she could make biscuits without measuring a single ingredient.
On the sixth day, the storm finally eased enough for them to check North Ridge.
Rowan did not want Mara going.
Mara insisted.
“I need to know.”
He studied her face.
“All right.”
They traveled slowly.
Rowan broke trail ahead of her.
Snow reached above Mara’s knees in places.
When the old cabin finally appeared through the trees, Mara stopped.
The roof had collapsed.
Not partially.
Completely.
Heavy snow had crushed the center inward.
Logs and timber lay twisted across the sleeping area where Mara’s cot had stood.
She said nothing.
Rowan moved beside her.
“If you’d stayed…”
“I know.”
Mara could not stop staring.
The stove pipe had broken.
The window shattered.
Half the wall leaned outward.
She pictured herself beneath the blankets.
The baby inside her.
A crushing weight.
No one close enough to hear.
Her legs weakened.
Rowan caught her elbow.
“I’m all right.”
“No, you’re not.”
Mara swallowed.
“My things.”
“We’ll recover what we can.”
“My trunk?”
“Probably.”
She looked toward Rowan.
“If I hadn’t left…”
“But you did.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“But you did.”
His voice was low and steady.
Mara looked at him.
He was not offering false comfort.
He was giving her fact.
She survived.
The rest could be handled.
They recovered her trunk, several blankets and some kitchenware.
On the walk back, Mara was quieter than usual.
At Rowan’s cabin, she stood just inside the doorway.
“What now?”
Rowan set down her trunk.
“You stay.”
Mara blinked.
“For how long?”
“Until you have somewhere safe.”
“That could be weeks.”
“Yes.”
“Months.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
“You don’t want anyone here.”
“I don’t want most people here.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
Mara removed her gloves.
“I don’t want charity.”
“Then don’t call it charity.”
“What would you call it?”
Rowan shrugged.
“You cook better than I do.”
“So you want a housekeeper.”
“No.”
“You want payment?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly do you want?”
His eyes met hers.
“For you to stop turning everything into a debt.”
The words struck somewhere deep.
Mara looked away.
Daniel had once told her the same thing.
She had spent her life worrying about taking too much space.
Too much food.
Too much time.
Too much kindness.
Too much love.
Perhaps because other people had spent years suggesting that a woman built like Mara should be grateful for whatever she received.
Rowan seemed to read something in her face.
He leaned against the table.
“You don’t owe me for not letting you freeze.”
Mara swallowed.
“I’m not used to receiving things without conditions.”
“I gathered that.”
“How?”
“You apologize every time you eat.”
Her head snapped toward him.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“When?”
“You thanked me three times at breakfast.”
“That’s manners.”
“You asked if I was sure before taking a second biscuit.”
Mara opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Rowan’s voice softened.
“You’re allowed to be hungry.”
A strange ache filled her throat.
People had teased Mara about her size since childhood.
Some strangers assumed she ate too much.
Others watched what she put on her plate.
At gatherings, she had learned to eat less than she wanted simply to avoid the feeling of eyes.
Daniel had hated that.
Rowan apparently noticed it without being told.
“I know,” she said quietly.
“Do you?”
Mara looked away.
That evening she made stew.
Rowan ate two bowls.
Mara ate one.
Then stared at the pot.
Without looking at her, Rowan pushed it closer.
“There’s plenty.”
“I know.”
“Then eat.”
She served herself more.
No one commented.
The world did not end.
Later they sat by the fire.
The wind had weakened.
Stars had appeared outside.
Mara finally asked the question she had avoided.
“Did you really kill Preston Wade?”
Rowan went very still.
She immediately regretted it.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to answer.”
“He pulled a pistol.”
Mara waited.
Rowan stared into the fire.
“He had been drinking. He thought I insulted him.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
Mara blinked.
“What did you say?”
“I told him beating a stable boy half his size didn’t make him tough.”
“That was the insult?”
“He took it seriously.”
“And then?”
“He drew.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened.
“I was faster.”
Mara looked at him.
“The court said self-defense.”
“The court wasn’t the problem.”
“His family?”
“His money.”
Mara understood.
Iron Hollow worshiped wealth more than truth.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“I did.”
“You’re still here.”
“I left town. Mountain’s different.”
Mara smiled faintly.
“Fair enough.”
He looked at her.
“You scared of me now?”
Mara considered the question.
“No.”
“Why?”
She thought about waking in his bed while he slept on the floor.
The soup.
The fire.
The careful way he had checked her hands for frostbite.
The collapsed cabin.
The pot of stew he kept pushing toward her because he noticed she was hungry.
“Because everything people told me about you was about something you did five years ago.”
Rowan’s expression hardened.
“And everything I’ve seen is about what you’ve done this week.”
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then looked away.
Mara wondered if anyone had ever said something like that to him.
Three days later, she tried splitting wood.
Rowan found her outside holding the ax.
“No.”
Mara glared.
“You don’t own the ax.”
“I own that one.”
“Then give me another.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“Pregnancy doesn’t make my arms useless.”
“No. But falling on ice makes everything useless.”
“I know how to stand.”
“You walked through a blizzard.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“You’ll use that argument until I’m eighty.”
“If you reach eighty after making decisions like that, I’ll be impressed.”
She started laughing.
Rowan tried not to.
She saw it.
“Are you smiling?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m regretting letting you stay.”
“Too late.”
Rowan shook his head.
For a moment they simply stood in the snow.
Mara realized she felt something she had not expected to feel again so soon.
Comfort.
Not happiness exactly.
That seemed too large a word.
But something near it.
Then her face changed.
Rowan noticed immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Mara.”
She lowered the ax.
“The baby kicked.”
His eyes dropped toward her belly.
Mara hesitated.
Then, without knowing why, she took his hand.
Rowan froze.
She placed his palm against the side of her stomach.
They waited.
A strong kick pressed against him.
Rowan’s eyes widened.
Mara smiled.
“There.”
Another kick.
Something in Rowan Hale’s hard face completely disappeared.
For one brief second, he looked almost boyish.
“Strong.”
The word hit Mara like a memory.
Daniel.
Strong one.
Her smile faltered.
Rowan immediately withdrew his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
Mara wiped her eyes.
“It’s not your fault.”
She looked toward the mountains.
“He used to say that.”
Rowan was silent.
“Daniel?”
“Yes.”
After a moment Rowan said, “He was right.”
Mara turned toward him.
“He usually was.”
They carried the wood inside together.
Neither mentioned the moment again.
But that evening Rowan quietly carved a small wooden horse.
He claimed it was something to do with his hands.
Mara knew better.
She did not embarrass him by saying so.
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