The first night in the mountains, Abigail was certain she would die.
Not because of the cold.
Not because of the wolves howling somewhere beyond the trees.
But because she did not understand the man walking beside her.
Cole had barely spoken since leaving town.
He led his horse along a narrow trail while Abigail followed, wrapped in his enormous buffalo-hide coat.
The mountains grew steeper as the sun descended.
Pine branches creaked overhead.
Snow still lingered in the shadows despite the warmth of the lower valley.
Every so often, Cole glanced back to make certain she was keeping up.
He never told her to hurry.
That frightened her more than impatience would have.
She understood anger.
She understood orders.
She understood punishment.
Kindness was unfamiliar territory.
And unfamiliar things were dangerous.
After nearly two hours, Abigail stumbled over a buried root.
She caught herself against a tree.
Cole stopped immediately.
"You hurt?"
"No, sir."
He looked at her feet.
Her shoes were worn nearly through.
"How long you been walking in those?"
She hesitated.
"I don't know."
Cole crouched and examined the torn leather without touching her.
"Those won't last another week."
"I'm sorry."
He looked up.
"For what?"
Abigail blinked.
"My shoes."
"Didn't ask you to apologize."
She lowered her eyes.
"Yes, sir."
Cole stood.
"Name's Cole."
She looked confused.
"You don't have to call me sir."
Abigail nodded, although she doubted she would remember.
They continued.
As darkness settled, the temperature dropped sharply.
Abigail's fingers began to ache.
Cole noticed.
He stopped beside a sheltered patch of ground, built a small fire, and handed her a piece of dried meat.
"Eat."
She took it carefully.
"Thank you."
He poured water into a tin cup.
She accepted that too.
Then he sat on the opposite side of the fire.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Abigail watched the flames.
Finally, she gathered enough courage to ask the question that had been burning inside her since the alley.
"What do you want from me?"
Cole glanced up.
"What?"
"At your cabin."
He waited.
"What work do you want me to do?"
Cole considered the question.
"Nothing tonight."
She frowned.
"But you paid my mother."
"I did."
"Three gold coins."
"I can count."
Abigail flinched at the dry reply.
Cole noticed immediately.
His expression changed.
He set down his cup.
"Wasn't scolding you."
She nodded quickly.
"I know."
But she did not know.
And Cole could see it.
He stared into the fire for a long moment.
Then he said, "You needed to get away from that place."
Abigail looked at him.
"Why?"
He frowned.
"Why what?"
"Why would you care?"
The question hung between them.
Cole rubbed a hand over his beard.
"Seemed like somebody ought to."
Abigail had no answer.
Nobody had ever said anything like that to her.
Not since her father died.
She looked down at the dried meat in her hands.
For reasons she could not explain, her throat tightened.
She swallowed hard.
Crying was dangerous.
She would not cry.
Cole said nothing more.
When they resumed traveling, he shortened his pace.
Abigail noticed.
She pretended not to.
By the time they reached his cabin, the sky had turned black.
The building stood in a clearing surrounded by towering pines.
It was larger than Abigail expected, built from heavy logs with a stone chimney and a small covered porch.
A stable stood nearby.
Firewood was stacked neatly beneath the eaves.
There were no neighbors.
No road.
No lights beyond the cabin windows.
Only mountains and darkness.
Cole opened the door.
"Inside."
Abigail obeyed.
Warmth greeted her.
A cast-iron stove stood near one wall.
A wooden table occupied the center of the room.
There were two chairs, a narrow bed behind a hanging curtain, shelves of supplies, and a small loft reached by a sturdy ladder.
Everything was plain.
Everything was clean.
Abigail stood just inside the doorway, uncertain where she was allowed to step.
Cole set down his sack.
"Sit."
She immediately lowered herself onto the floor.
Cole turned.
He stared.
"Chair, Abigail."
Her face burned.
"Sorry."
He pulled out one of the wooden chairs.
She sat on its edge.
Cole added wood to the stove and filled a pot with water.
He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone accustomed to living alone.
Abigail watched every movement.
She expected him to tell her to cook.
Instead, he prepared supper himself.
Beans.
Salt pork.
A piece of cornbread.
He placed a full plate before her.
Abigail stared at it.
There was more food on that plate than she had eaten in the previous two days.
Cole sat across from her.
"Something wrong?"
"No."
"Then eat."
She picked up her fork.
Her hands shook.
She took a small bite.
Then another.
She wanted to eat faster.
But Martha had always punished her for appearing greedy.
Cole noticed the way she kept glancing toward him.
"There's more in the pot."
Abigail stopped chewing.
"What?"
"If you're hungry, have more."
She looked down.
"Thank you."
He nodded.
After supper, she immediately began gathering the dishes.
Cole watched her.
"What are you doing?"
"Cleaning."
"Leave them."
"I can wash them."
"Tomorrow."
Abigail froze.
Had she done something wrong?
Cole rose from the table.
"You need sleep."
She looked toward the narrow bed.
Then toward the floor.
"Where should I—"
"Bed's yours."
She stared.
"Where will you sleep?"
"Loft."
"But that's your bed."
"Was."
She shook her head quickly.
"I can't take your bed."
Cole sighed.
"Abigail."
She went still.
He softened his voice.
"You're exhausted. Sleep."
She hesitated.
Then asked the question she had been dreading.
"What do you want me to do?"
Cole studied her trembling hands.
For a moment, the only sound was the fire crackling inside the stove.
Then he answered.
"I want you to sleep."
Abigail stared.
That was all?
No work?
No payment?
No hidden demand?
She did not believe it.
Not completely.
But she was too tired to argue.
Cole placed an extra blanket on the bed.
Then he climbed into the loft.
Abigail lay beneath the covers without removing her shoes.
She stared into the darkness.
Every creak of the cabin made her heart race.
Every shift of Cole's weight overhead made her hold her breath.
She waited for him to come down.
He never did.
Hours passed.
The fire burned low.
Outside, the wind whispered through the pines.
And sometime before dawn, Abigail fell asleep.
She dreamed of the boardinghouse.
Of Martha's paddle.
Of dirty water.
Of her father's voice telling her she was not weak.
Then she woke with a gasp.
For one terrifying second, she did not know where she was.
She sat upright.
The cabin was quiet.
Cole was asleep in the loft.
No one was shouting.
No one was angry.
Abigail slowly lay back down.
She pulled the blanket to her chin.
And for the first time in years, she allowed herself to wonder whether something good might actually be happening.
But fear did not disappear simply because the door to the boardinghouse had closed behind her.
It had followed her into the mountains.
And the following morning, one small accident would reveal just how deeply that fear had taken root.