Lydia survived the night.
The next morning was less certain.
She woke to sunlight on snow and Caleb leaning over her with an expression severe enough to frighten a healthy person.
“Good morning,” she whispered.
“You’re feverish.”
“That is a poor greeting.”
“Drink.”
He held a tin cup to her lips.
The liquid inside tasted bitter.
Lydia pulled away.
“What is that?”
“Willow bark.”
“It tastes like boiled furniture.”
“Drink.”
“You have missed your calling as a hotel keeper.”
Caleb’s mouth twitched.
It quickly became clear that living with Caleb Rusk while injured required surrendering several freedoms Lydia had previously considered fundamental.
Walking, for instance.
Caleb forbade it.
Cooking.
Forbidden.
Fetching her own water.
Forbidden.
Attempting to cross the cabin while balancing on one leg and using a broom as a crutch.
Very loudly forbidden.
By the second afternoon Lydia was ready to strangle him.
“I am not helpless.”
“I know.”
“You behave as if I am.”
“You have a deep puncture wound.”
“I also have another leg.”
“You have one leg that works and one brain that refuses to.”
She stared at him.
Caleb kept chopping vegetables.
“Did you just insult my intelligence?”
“I questioned your judgment.”
“There is a difference?”
“Yes.”
“How comforting.”
He made stew.
Bad stew.
The meat was tough, the potatoes undercooked, and the onions burned.
Lydia ate two bowls.
Not because it was good.
Because Caleb had clearly tried.
On the third day, her fever broke.
On the fourth, he changed the packing and announced that the wound looked clean.
On the fifth, Lydia demanded to sit at the table.
Caleb built her a crutch.
On the sixth, she discovered his pantry.
“Caleb.”
He was repairing a trap outside.
“Caleb!”
He came through the door carrying a coil of wire.
“What?”
She stood beside the pantry on her crutch, looking appalled.
“You have flour.”
“Yes.”
“Beans.”
“Yes.”
“Salt pork.”
“Yes.”
“Coffee.”
“Yes.”
“Cornmeal.”
“Yes.”
“And you have been feeding us that stew?”
He looked puzzled.
“It’s food.”
“It is evidence.”
“Of what?”
“Criminal negligence.”
Two hours later Lydia had made biscuits, fried salt pork, beans with onion, and apple preserves from a dusty jar she found behind a sack of oats.
Caleb ate six biscuits.
Lydia watched.
“You hate my cooking?”
“No.”
“You have not spoken in ten minutes.”
“I’m eating.”
“That is not the same thing.”
He reached for a seventh biscuit.
“It’s good.”
Lydia smiled.
It was the first compliment about a skill she had received since leaving Philadelphia.
Something changed in the cabin after that.
Not dramatically.
Caleb remained quiet.
Lydia remained unable to stop filling silence.
But routine formed between them.
She cooked.
He carried wood.
She mended his shirts, badly enough that he eventually sat beside her and showed her how his mother had taught him to reinforce torn seams.
“You sew?”
“I survive.”
She looked delighted.
“I will treasure this information forever.”
“Please don’t.”
Each evening, he inspected her wound.
At first Lydia hated the vulnerability of it.
Caleb had to kneel beside her.
She had to lift her skirt above the knee.
She had spent years learning to minimize herself—to sit carefully, dress loosely, avoid drawing attention to a body society considered too much.
Caleb treated her leg as though it were simply a leg.
Strong.
Injured.
Healing.
Nothing shameful.
On the seventh evening Lydia finally asked the question they had both avoided.
“When did you intend to marry me?”
Caleb stopped cleaning his rifle.
“When you could stand.”
“I can stand.”
“You limp.”
“I did not ask when I could dance.”
He placed the rifle aside.
“There’s a preacher at Leadville.”
“That sounds promising.”
“The road’s blocked.”
“Oh.”
“Could be three weeks.”
Lydia’s expression changed.
“Three weeks?”
“Maybe two.”
She looked around the single-room cabin.
The bed sat behind her.
Caleb followed her gaze.
“I’ll sleep in the loft.”
“You have been sleeping in the chair.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot do that for three weeks.”
“I can.”
“It is your bed.”
“So?”
“So this is ridiculous.”
Caleb leaned back.
“What do you suggest?”
Lydia opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
She turned pink.
Caleb looked away, giving her time.
Finally she said, “Perhaps we should establish rules.”
“For sleeping?”
“For everything.”
“All right.”
“No touching without permission.”
“Agreed.”
“No assumptions about marriage.”
“Agreed.”
“No ordering me around unless I am actively bleeding.”
Caleb considered.
“Mostly agreed.”
“Caleb.”
“All right.”
She folded her arms.
“And if either of us decides this arrangement was a mistake before the preacher becomes available, we say so plainly.”
Caleb’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But Lydia noticed.
“You planning to leave?”
“No.”
“Then why make the rule?”
“Because I crossed half a country based on letters. You sent money to a woman you had never seen. One of us should demonstrate common sense.”
“I already saw your handwriting.”
“That was enough?”
“It told me plenty.”
“What?”
“You press too hard when angry.”
Lydia stared.
“You examined my pen strokes?”
“You crossed out Frederick Bell’s name so hard you tore the paper.”
She looked down.
“That was different.”
“I figured.”
For several moments, neither spoke.
Then Caleb asked, “Did he hurt you?”
Lydia understood immediately.
“My stepfather?”
“Yes.”
“Not with his hands.”
Caleb waited.
She appreciated that he did not force her.
“He made my mother feel as though feeding me was charity. Every loaf of bread. Every piece of coal. Every candle burned after dark. He kept accounts.”
Something cold entered Caleb’s eyes.
“Your mother allowed it?”
“She was afraid of being alone.”
“And you?”
“I decided being alone might be preferable.”
Caleb looked toward the window.
“That’s why you answered.”
“In part.”
“What was the other part?”
Lydia smiled faintly.
“Beauty not required.”
His head turned.
She regretted the words immediately.
But they were true.
“In Philadelphia, there is a very specific shape a woman is expected to be,” Lydia continued. “Small waist. Narrow shoulders. Delicate hands. The ability to eat half a biscuit while insisting she is full.”
Caleb looked at her plate.
She had eaten three biscuits.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“You’re not small.”
“Thank you for the discovery.”
“You said you wanted honesty.”
“I did.”
He looked at her fully.
“You’re strong.”
Lydia’s humor disappeared.
“Strong is usually what people say when they don’t want to say pretty.”
“I wasn’t trying to say pretty.”
That hurt more than she expected.
“Oh.”
Caleb frowned.
Then realization arrived.
“That came out wrong.”
“It came out extremely clearly.”
“No.”
Lydia reached for her crutch.
“I think I will sleep.”
“Lydia.”
“Good night.”
He stood.
“I meant you’re strong because you’re strong.”
She looked back at him.
Caleb appeared genuinely irritated with himself.
“I wasn’t replacing another word.”
Lydia waited.
He swallowed.
“You’re also pretty.”
She blinked.
He looked miserable.
“Now it sounds like I only said it because you wanted me to.”
“I didn’t ask you to say anything.”
“I know.”
“Then perhaps stop before this becomes worse.”
“That would be smart.”
She fought a smile.
Caleb stared at the floor.
“You have beautiful hair.”
Lydia’s smile disappeared.
“What?”
“And eyes.”
He rubbed a hand over his beard.
“I should stop.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going outside.”
“It is snowing.”
“I noticed.”
He took his coat.
Lydia began laughing before the door closed.
Outside, Caleb stood in a blizzard wondering how a man who could track elk over bare rock had managed to lose his footing in a conversation about biscuits.
Inside, Lydia touched her hair.
Beautiful.
The word frightened her.
Not because she believed it.
Because part of her wanted to.
The storm cleared three days later.
Caleb saddled his horse.
“I’ll check the road.”
Lydia looked up from kneading bread.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
Their rules lasted eleven days.
“You are not going alone.”
“I am going six miles.”
“Into mountains.”
“I live in mountains.”
“So do I now.”
Caleb looked toward her leg.
“You’re not riding.”
Lydia planted both hands on the table.
“You sent for a wife who was strong, steady, willing to work, and unafraid of snow. You did not advertise for a decorative cushion.”
“No.”
“Then stop treating me like one.”
Caleb slowly exhaled.
“One mile.”
“Three.”
“One and a half.”
“Two.”
He nodded.
“Done.”
They rode slowly.
Lydia’s leg ached, but she said nothing.
The world after the storm was astonishing.
Snow covered every ridge.
Pines bent under white weight.
Sunlight struck distant peaks until they seemed made of silver.
Lydia forgot her pain.
“Oh.”
Caleb looked at her.
She whispered, “You live here.”
Something softened in his expression.
“Yes.”
“I understand why.”
They stopped overlooking a valley.
Far below, a river cut through snow.
Smoke rose faintly from Leadville.
Lydia looked toward Caleb.
“Why did you need a wife?”
He was quiet for so long she thought he might refuse.
Then he said, “I didn’t.”
“That is reassuring.”
“I wanted one.”
The answer surprised her.
“I spent twelve years telling myself wanting people was weakness.”
“Why?”
“My father left. My younger brother died. My mother followed three winters later.”
“I’m sorry.”
Caleb watched the mountains.
“After that, empty rooms seemed simpler.”
“Until they didn’t.”
He looked at her.
“Until they didn’t.”
Lydia felt something inside her shift.
On their way home they saw smoke.
Not from the cabin.
From the lower pasture.
Caleb’s expression hardened instantly.
He urged his horse forward.
Lydia followed.
A section of fencing had been cut.
Tracks crossed the snow.
Caleb dismounted.
Three horses were gone.
He crouched over the prints.
“Someone came while we were out.”
Lydia looked toward the cabin above them.
“Thieves?”
“Maybe.”
“Who?”
Caleb did not answer immediately.
Then he found something trapped beneath the broken fence wire.
A strip of red wool.
His face went still.
Lydia noticed.
“You recognize it.”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
Caleb closed his fist around the cloth.
“Elias Vane.”
“Who is Elias Vane?”
Caleb looked toward the mountains.
“A man who believes this land belongs to him.”
Lydia glanced toward the cabin they had just left empty.
“Does he?”
“No.”
“Does that matter to him?”
Caleb’s gray eyes hardened.
“No.”
And suddenly Lydia understood that the storm, the injury, and the strange beginning of her marriage were not the only dangers waiting in Colorado.
Someone wanted Caleb Rusk’s mountain.
And that someone had just learned Caleb no longer lived there alone.