Rebecca woke before sunrise.
For several seconds, she did not remember where she was.
Then the smell of pine smoke reached her.
She opened her eyes.
The cabin was dim.
Snow pressed against the lower half of the window.
Across the room, Jonas slept on the floor beneath a heavy blanket, one arm thrown over his chest.
Even asleep, he looked guarded.
Rebecca sat up carefully.
Her body ached from the previous day's ride.
Her fingers were sore.
Her lungs still felt strange from the altitude.
But she was alive.
That was enough.
She looked toward her battered case.
Everything she had managed to save from her old life fit inside it.
Three dresses.
Two pairs of stockings.
A hairbrush.
A Bible that had belonged to her mother.
Several letters.
A small tin box.
And twenty-three dollars sewn into the lining.
Nothing else.
Everything that once belonged to Rebecca Hale had vanished in less than a year.
Her home.
Her security.
Her reputation.
And, if certain people had succeeded, possibly her life.
She pushed the memory away.
This mountain was dangerous.
Jonas had been correct about that.
But danger here was honest.
Snow did not pretend to love you.
Cold did not smile while planning to ruin you.
A mountain might kill you, but it would never lie about what it was.
Rebecca preferred that.
She slipped out of bed.
The stove still held enough coals to restart the fire.
She added kindling and wood quietly.
Behind her, Jonas said, "Too much."
Rebecca jumped.
He had opened his eyes.
"What?"
"Don't load the firebox that full. It'll burn too hot."
Rebecca removed one piece of wood.
"Better?"
Jonas sat up.
"Better."
She looked at him.
"Good morning to you too."
He rubbed a hand over his beard.
"Morning."
It seemed almost painful for him to say it.
Rebecca hid a smile.
She made coffee while Jonas dressed.
When he stepped outside, she expected him to be gone only a few minutes.
Instead half an hour passed.
Then an hour.
Rebecca ate one leftover biscuit and began exploring her new home.
The pantry was reasonably stocked, though disorganized.
Several jars needed cleaning.
A bag of beans had split along the seam.
The flour bin was nearly empty.
She made a list using a scrap of paper from her case.
Flour.
Sugar.
Lamp oil.
Dried fruit.
Needles.
Thread.
Soap.
Jonas owned exactly one kitchen cloth and apparently believed washing dishes with it, wiping mud from the table with it, and using it to handle hot pans was perfectly acceptable.
Rebecca decided that would change.
She found a broom.
By the time Jonas returned, snow covered his shoulders.
He stopped in the doorway.
The cabin looked different.
Not dramatically.
But the bed had been made.
The dishes were washed.
The table had been scrubbed.
The pantry shelves were organized.
His boots, usually kicked beside the door, had been moved onto a cloth near the wall.
Jonas looked down.
"My boots."
"They were leaking snow everywhere."
"They're boots."
"Yes. I recognized them."
His eyes narrowed.
Rebecca returned to kneading bread.
"You don't like where I put them?"
Jonas looked at the boots.
Then at the clean floor.
"They're fine."
Rebecca continued working.
Jonas removed his coat.
"I need to teach you the well."
"I'll get my coat."
"You can wait."
She looked at him.
"For what?"
"For warmer weather."
"When is that?"
"April."
"It's December."
"Exactly."
Rebecca dusted flour from her hands.
"Show me the well."
Jonas frowned.
"No."
"You said you needed help."
"I need a wife, not a corpse."
"Then show your wife how to get water."
Something almost like respect entered his expression.
"Put on both pairs of socks."
Rebecca did.
The well was fifty yards downhill, protected by a rough wooden shelter.
Jonas demonstrated how to break the surface ice, lower the bucket, and keep the rope from freezing.
Rebecca listened carefully.
"Never come down here after dark alone," he said.
"Why?"
"Mountain lions."
Rebecca looked toward the trees.
"You have mountain lions?"
"We have bears too."
"In winter?"
"Usually sleeping."
"Usually?"
Jonas picked up the filled bucket.
"Usually."
Rebecca followed him uphill.
"I believe the matrimonial agency left out several important details."
"They left out several details about you too."
She looked at him.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Jonas stopped.
"You know how to work."
"I told you that."
"You know horses."
"Yes."
"You know how to manage a stove."
"Apparently that remains shocking."
"You've got scars on your hands."
Rebecca instinctively curled her fingers.
Jonas noticed.
"A storekeeper's widow doesn't usually have burn marks."
"Perhaps I was a careless cook."
"You're not careless."
Rebecca met his gaze.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Jonas continued toward the cabin.
He did not push.
That somehow made Rebecca more uncomfortable than questions would have.
During the next week, they established a rhythm.
Jonas rose before dawn.
Rebecca rose shortly afterward.
He cared for livestock, checked traps, chopped wood, repaired fencing, and monitored the mountain trail.
She cooked, cleaned, mended clothing, carried water, and slowly transformed the cabin.
On the third day, she found an old flour sack.
She washed it.
Cut it.
And made curtains.
Jonas returned carrying firewood and stopped.
"What are those?"
"Curtains."
"I can see that."
"Then why did you ask?"
He stared at the window.
"They serve no purpose."
"They keep people from looking inside."
"The nearest person is two miles away."
"They also make the room less depressing."
Jonas looked offended.
"My cabin is not depressing."
Rebecca glanced at the rifle, bare walls, and gray blankets.
"Of course not."
On the fifth day, she rearranged the table.
On the sixth, she baked an apple cake using dried fruit and molasses.
Jonas ate two pieces without admitting he liked it.
On the seventh, Rebecca followed him to the woodpile.
"What are you doing?"
"Learning."
"No."
"You wrote to St. Louis asking for a hardworking woman."
"I didn't mean you should chop wood."
"You said I looked like I had never split a log."
"I was angry."
"So show me."
Jonas studied her.
"Have you ever used an axe?"
"No."
"Then stand back."
He demonstrated.
Rebecca watched everything.
Feet apart.
Hands positioned properly.
Never swing when tired.
Never leave an axe buried where snow might hide the blade.
Then he handed it to her.
The weight surprised her.
Her first swing barely marked the log.
Jonas folded his arms.
Rebecca tried again.
The axe bounced.
She nearly lost control.
Jonas stepped forward.
"I told you."
Rebecca tightened her jaw.
"You told me how. You did not say I could master it in two attempts."
Ten minutes later her shoulders burned.
Twenty minutes later her palms hurt.
Thirty minutes later she split her first piece.
The log cracked apart.
Rebecca stared.
A laugh escaped her.
Not polite laughter.
Not restrained amusement.
Real joy.
Jonas found himself staring at her.
Rebecca turned.
"I did it."
"You did."
She brushed loose hair from her face.
Her cheeks were pink from exertion.
For the first time since arriving, she did not look fragile.
Jonas felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.
He looked away.
"Don't get proud. That was pine."
Rebecca smiled.
"What difference does that make?"
"Try oak sometime."
"I will."
"I wasn't suggesting—"
But Rebecca was already positioning the next log.
Jonas shook his head.
That evening, her hands blistered badly.
She tried hiding them.
Jonas noticed.
He always noticed.
"Give me your hands."
"I'm fine."
"Rebecca."
Something in his tone stopped her.
She extended them.
He sat across from her and examined the blisters.
His touch was surprisingly gentle.
Rebecca watched his face.
The scar along his cheek made him look severe, but his hands contradicted that impression.
He cleaned the broken skin.
Applied salve.
Wrapped both palms in strips of cloth.
"You push too hard," he said.
"So do you."
"I've been doing this fifteen years."
"Then you should know better."
His eyes lifted.
Rebecca smiled.
Jonas shook his head.
"Impossible woman."
"You married me."
"I attempted not to."
"But your word meant something."
His expression changed.
Rebecca regretted saying it.
She did not want him to believe she had manipulated him.
Before she could explain, he asked, "Why did that matter so much to you?"
"What?"
"My word."
Rebecca stared at their hands.
Jonas still held one of hers.
She slowly pulled away.
"Because I've known men whose words meant nothing."
Jonas waited.
Rebecca stood.
"I should check the bread."
"Rebecca."
She did not turn.
"My husband wasn't a good man."
That was the most she had ever said.
Jonas remained silent.
Rebecca removed bread from the oven.
"Was he violent?"
The question hung in the warm cabin.
Rebecca's shoulders stiffened.
"He's dead."
"That wasn't what I asked."
She faced him.
"No."
It was technically true.
Her husband had never struck her.
He had simply destroyed everything around her.
Jonas seemed to recognize the distinction.
He did not question her further.
That night, a storm arrived.
Not ordinary snow.
A true mountain storm.
Wind slammed against the walls.
The temperature dropped sharply.
Jonas checked the shutters twice.
Rebecca lay awake listening.
Near midnight came a sound from outside.
A horse screaming.
Jonas was instantly awake.
He grabbed his coat.
Rebecca sat up.
"What is it?"
"Barn."
He reached for his rifle.
"I'm coming."
"No."
"Jonas—"
"Stay here."
He disappeared into the storm.
Rebecca waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Then fifteen.
The horse screamed again.
She could not stand it.
Rebecca pulled on her boots and coat.
She tied a scarf around her face.
The moment she opened the door, wind almost knocked her backward.
Snow erased the barn from sight.
"Jonas!"
No answer.
She stepped outside.
The cold cut through every layer.
She followed the rope Jonas had tied between cabin and barn for storms.
Halfway there, she heard him.
"Rebecca!"
She found him beside the barn door.
A fallen pine limb had smashed part of the roof.
Inside, Bess had panicked.
Jonas was trying to move a heavy beam trapping the stall gate.
"Go back!"
Rebecca saw blood on his sleeve.
"You're hurt."
"Not bad."
Together they entered.
Bess kicked wildly.
Rebecca immediately approached from the side.
"Easy."
The mare's eyes rolled.
Rebecca spoke softly.
"Easy, sweetheart."
Jonas stared.
Bess calmed.
Rebecca took the bridle.
"Get her out."
"I can't until that beam moves."
"Then I'll hold her."
"Rebecca—"
"Move the beam."
Jonas stopped arguing.
He heaved against it.
Nothing.
Rebecca tied Bess securely.
Then stepped beside him.
"On three."
"You'll hurt yourself."
"Jonas."
He saw something in her expression and nodded.
"One. Two. Three."
They lifted.
Rebecca cried out as the weight strained her arms.
The beam shifted.
Jonas shoved it aside.
They freed Bess.
Another section of roof groaned.
"Move!"
Jonas grabbed Rebecca around the waist.
They stumbled out seconds before snow collapsed through the damaged roof.
Rebecca lay against him in the snow, gasping.
Jonas rolled over her, shielding her from debris.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Jonas looked down.
"You disobeyed me."
Rebecca was breathing hard.
"You're welcome."
His mouth opened.
Then, unexpectedly, Jonas laughed.
The sound startled both of them.
It was rough and rusty, as if he had forgotten how.
Rebecca stared at him.
Then she began laughing too.
They were half buried in snow.
The barn roof was damaged.
His arm was bleeding.
And they were laughing.
Inside the cabin, Rebecca cleaned the cut on Jonas's shoulder.
"It needs stitches."
"No."
"It absolutely needs stitches."
"Have you ever stitched a man?"
Rebecca went still.
Jonas noticed.
"Yes."
He slowly looked at her.
"Where?"
Rebecca opened her tin of needles.
"My husband sometimes brought injured workers home."
"What kind of store did he own?"
Her hand stopped.
Jonas's voice was quiet.
"You told me once it was a general store."
"It was."
"General stores don't usually have injured workers."
Rebecca threaded the needle.
"Hold still."
"Rebecca."
She met his eyes.
"Do you want the wound closed or not?"
Jonas understood.
Not tonight.
He removed his shirt.
Rebecca cleaned the injury and stitched it expertly.
Jonas did not flinch.
But his mind worked through every detail.
A woman who rode well.
Managed animals.
Started fires.
Cooked.
Stitched wounds.
And was afraid of questions concerning her dead husband.
When Rebecca finished, Jonas said, "You weren't his wife because you loved him."
Her eyes moved to his.
He immediately knew he was right.
Rebecca stood.
"Get some sleep."
She turned away.
Jonas watched her cross the cabin.
He had thought Rebecca Hale was too delicate for the mountain.
Now he understood something else.
She had not come west because she was looking for adventure.
She had come because she needed distance.
And whatever she had escaped had taught her enough about survival that a Colorado winter might actually be the safest place she had known in years.
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