In the days that followed, Cole discovered that Abigail was frightened of nearly everything.
Not of the mountains.
Not of the wolves.
Not even of the revolver hanging beside the cabin door.
She was afraid of ordinary things.
A chair scraping across the floor.
A cup set down too quickly.
A door opening unexpectedly.
The sound of heavy boots behind her.
And most of all, she was afraid of making someone angry.
Cole began changing small habits.
He announced himself before entering the cabin.
He stopped slamming the door when the wind caught it.
He kept his voice low.
When he needed something, he asked instead of ordered.
And when Abigail apologized, he simply reminded her that she had done nothing wrong.
At first, she found these changes confusing.
Then embarrassing.
Then, slowly, comforting.
One afternoon, Cole returned from checking his traps and found her sitting beside the window.
She was sewing a torn sleeve.
Sunlight fell across her face.
For once, her shoulders were relaxed.
She did not notice him immediately.
Cole remained at the doorway.
"Afternoon."
Abigail looked up.
She startled, but did not duck.
It was a small victory.
Cole treated it as ordinary.
"How's the sewing?"
"Almost finished."
He examined the sleeve.
"Better than I could do."
She looked surprised.
"You sew?"
"Badly."
That earned another small smile.
He set his supplies on the table.
Abigail hesitated.
Then asked, "Cole?"
He turned.
"Yes?"
"Why do you live alone?"
The question surprised him.
He looked toward the window.
For a moment, she feared she had offended him.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"
"Had a brother once."
Abigail stopped.
Cole pulled out a chair.
"His name was Daniel."
She waited.
"He was younger than me. Talked enough for three men."
A faint smile touched Cole's face.
"He hated the mountains. Said there were too many trees and not enough women willing to dance."
Abigail smiled gently.
"What happened to him?"
Cole's expression changed.
"He died."
She lowered her eyes.
"I'm sorry."
He nodded.
"Me too."
Silence settled between them.
Then Cole continued.
"Years ago, we were working a winter trapping line. Storm came early. Daniel went ahead to check the lower trail."
He paused.
"Never made it back."
Abigail's heart tightened.
"Did you find him?"
"Next morning."
Cole stared at his hands.
"Spent a long time thinking I should've gone with him."
Abigail understood that kind of guilt.
The belief that if you had worked harder, moved faster, spoken differently, someone might still be alive.
"My father died when I was fourteen," she said quietly.
Cole looked up.
"He was kind."
She swallowed.
"He used to tell me there wasn't anything wrong with being gentle."
Cole listened.
"After he died, my mother said he was weak."
Abigail looked toward the fire.
"She said I was just like him."
Cole leaned back.
"Sounds like he was a decent man."
Tears filled Abigail's eyes.
Nobody had spoken kindly about her father in years.
"He was."
Cole nodded.
"Then being like him isn't much of an insult."
Abigail looked at him.
Something inside her shifted.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
But enough that she remembered her father's voice without immediately hearing Martha's afterward.
That evening, Abigail asked whether she could help prepare supper.
Cole considered her.
"You want to?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
"Then go ahead."
She worked carefully.
Too carefully.
Every movement was deliberate.
She cut potatoes into neat pieces and stirred the stew with both hands wrapped around the spoon.
Cole sat nearby repairing a leather strap.
At one point, Abigail added too much salt.
She tasted the stew.
Her face went pale.
Cole noticed.
"What is it?"
"I ruined it."
He looked into the pot.
"How?"
"Too much salt."
Cole tasted a spoonful.
He considered it.
"Well."
Abigail's stomach dropped.
"That's salty."
She lowered her head.
"I'm sorry."
Cole stood.
"Got more potatoes?"
She nodded.
"Put them in."
She stared.
"That's all?"
"Unless you've got a better idea."
Abigail looked at the pot.
Then at him.
And slowly, she began to laugh.
Not the nervous little breath she had released after the tin bowl fell.
A real laugh.
Warm.
Unexpected.
Cole smiled.
"There it is."
She stopped.
"What?"
"Nothing."
But he had seen it.
For a brief moment, Abigail had forgotten to be afraid.
Later that night, after supper, she sat near the stove with her father's wooden button resting in her palm.
Cole noticed it.
"What's that?"
She held it out.
"My father's."
He examined the small, worn button.
"Kept it all these years?"
She nodded.
"It's the only thing I have left of him."
Cole returned it carefully.
"Then it's worth keeping."
Abigail looked at the button.
Then she asked something she had never dared ask another person.
"Do you think people can change?"
Cole thought for a long moment.
"Some can."
"Even if they've been afraid their whole lives?"
He looked directly at her.
"Fear isn't who you are, Abigail."
She swallowed.
"It's something you learned."
Her eyes filled.
"And what if I can't unlearn it?"
Cole leaned forward.
"Then we'll take our time."
She stared at him.
"We?"
He seemed to realize what he had said.
He cleared his throat.
"Long as you're here."
Abigail looked down at the button.
For the first time, the thought of staying in the cabin did not fill her with dread.
It filled her with something she had almost forgotten.
Hope.
But hope was fragile.
And far below the mountains, Martha had begun to realize that three gold coins were not nearly enough to satisfy her greed.