Josie woke before sunrise because hunger had trained her body to rise before there was anything worth waking for.
For several seconds she did not know where she was.
Then she felt the weight of thick furs over her shoulders and smelled cedar smoke.
Judson’s cabin.
The memory rushed back.
Her father.
The trading post.
The gold coin.
The ride into the mountains.
She sat upright.
Judson was gone.
His blanket lay folded on the floor.
Josie immediately searched the room.
Her shoes were near the fireplace.
Her shawl had been hung to dry.
Nothing had been disturbed.
More importantly, neither had she.
She swung her feet to the floor.
The door opened.
Josie jumped.
Judson entered carrying an armload of split wood.
“Morning.”
She pressed a hand to her chest.
“You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
He dropped the logs beside the hearth.
Josie stared.
Men like her father did not apologize for frightening women.
Judson seemed not to notice how strange the word sounded coming from him.
“Coffee?”
She nodded cautiously.
He poured two cups.
Josie took hers.
It contained actual coffee instead of the burnt chicory Amos usually brewed.
She nearly smiled.
Judson noticed.
Something faint shifted around his eyes.
“You like coffee.”
“I forgot I did.”
He turned toward the stove.
Breakfast was bacon, fried potatoes, and biscuits.
Josie ate carefully.
Judson said little.
At last she could not stand the silence.
“What work do you want me to do?”
He looked up.
“Work?”
“My father said I could cook. Mend. Clean.”
“I heard him.”
“So?”
“So eat your breakfast.”
“I already have.”
“Then have another biscuit.”
Her frustration rose.
“I’m not asking about biscuits.”
Judson leaned back.
“What are you asking?”
“What I owe you.”
His expression changed.
“You owe me nothing.”
“That isn't possible.”
“It is in this cabin.”
“You paid for supplies.”
“I bought supplies.”
“For my father.”
“Yes.”
“In exchange for me.”
“No.”
Josie stared.
“I was standing there.”
“So was I.”
“He offered me.”
“And I got you out of there.”
Her breathing became shallow.
“Then why didn't you just say no?”
Judson looked toward the fire.
“Because he might've offered you to the next man.”
The answer chilled her.
Judson continued.
“O’Malley wouldn't give Amos credit. Your father was desperate. Desperate men do ugly things and call them necessary.”
“You think my father would have—”
“Yes.”
His certainty hurt.
Mostly because Josie shared it.
She stared into her cup.
“So you bought me to save me from being bought.”
“I didn't buy you.”
“The whole trading post thinks otherwise.”
“Let them.”
Josie gave a hollow laugh.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“You can leave whenever you want.”
“In this?”
She pointed toward the snow-covered window.
“No.”
“Then I'm not free.”
“No one is free to walk into a blizzard and live.”
Judson’s tone softened.
“When the pass opens, if you want to go to town, I’ll take you.”
“And if I stay?”
“You stay.”
“As what?”
“As Josie.”
The simplicity of the answer unsettled her.
She stood abruptly.
“I need work.”
Judson frowned.
“I can’t sit around eating your food.”
“You’re half-starved.”
“I can still work.”
He considered her.
“All right.”
Relief swept through her.
“Beans need sorting.”
She stared.
“Beans?”
“Bad ones out. Good ones in the jar.”
“That’s hardly work.”
“It is if you want supper.”
For the first time, she heard something nearly playful in his voice.
Josie spent the morning sorting beans.
By afternoon, she had found other things to do despite Judson’s objections. She swept the floor, repaired a torn flour sack, and reorganized a shelf.
Judson watched her for a while.
“You always move this much?”
“When I’m awake.”
“Why?”
“Because people tolerate you better if you're useful.”
The cabin went quiet.
Judson turned back to sharpening his hunting knife.
“Not here.”
Josie pretended not to understand him.
The following days established a strange routine.
Judson woke early.
He fed the animals, chopped wood, checked trap lines, and disappeared into the forest for hours.
Josie cooked because she wanted to.
She cleaned because stillness made her anxious.
She mended his shirts because the sight of badly sewn cuffs offended her.
Each night, Judson slept on the floor.
On the fourth evening, Josie finally said, “This is ridiculous.”
He looked up from repairing a trap.
“What is?”
“You sleeping down there.”
“It’s comfortable enough.”
“That floor is frozen.”
“I’ve slept on rocks.”
“That doesn't make it sensible.”
Judson raised an eyebrow.
Josie pointed toward the bed.
“It’s large enough for three people.”
His hands stopped.
Immediately, heat climbed into Josie’s face.
“I didn't mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
“You can sleep on one side. I’ll sleep on the other.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you still wake up every time I walk near that bed.”
Josie went silent.
He had noticed.
Judson resumed working.
“When you stop being afraid, we’ll discuss it.”
Something tightened in her chest.
He was protecting her from himself.
Or perhaps protecting her from what she believed men inevitably became.
A week passed.
Then two.
Josie gained strength.
Her cheeks filled slightly.
Her hands stopped trembling when she carried full buckets.
Judson brought home a rabbit one afternoon, and Josie made stew with dumplings.
He ate three bowls.
“Good?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Only good?”
He considered.
“Dangerously good.”
She smiled before she could stop herself.
Judson stared.
The smile vanished.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“You look different when you smile.”
Her pulse skipped.
She turned away.
The next morning, Judson announced they needed more firewood before the next storm.
Josie insisted on helping.
“You'll freeze.”
“I own a coat now.”
“You own my old coat.”
“It works.”
Outside, the world glittered.
Fresh snow covered the trees. The sky was brilliant blue, and sunlight reflected so intensely that Josie had to squint.
She followed Judson toward a stand of dead pine.
He chopped while she stacked.
For nearly an hour, things felt almost normal.
Then the mountains answered with a deep crack.
Judson froze.
“What was that?”
“Move.”
“What?”
“Now, Josie!”
The slope above them broke loose.
Snow thundered between the trees.
Judson ran toward her.
Josie slipped.
He caught her around the waist and dragged her behind a granite outcrop seconds before a wave of snow and branches roared past.
The world became white noise.
Josie buried her face against his chest.
Judson shielded her with his body.
Then silence returned.
Her ears rang.
“Are you hurt?” Judson demanded.
“No.”
He held her shoulders.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“Anything broken?”
“No.”
His breath left him.
Only then did Josie realize his hands were shaking.
“You're afraid.”
“Of avalanches? Sensible men are.”
“No.”
She touched his wrist.
“You were afraid for me.”
Judson’s jaw tightened.
“That surprise you?”
“Yes.”
His gaze softened.
“That says more about the people you’ve known than it does about me.”
They walked back to the cabin.
That night Josie noticed blood soaking through Judson’s sleeve.
“You’re injured.”
“Scratch.”
She pulled his arm toward the lamp.
A branch had sliced his upper arm.
“That is not a scratch.”
“I've had worse.”
“Sit down.”
He did.
Josie cleaned the wound.
Judson never flinched.
But when her fingertips touched the scarred skin near his shoulder, his entire body became still.
Josie noticed old scars.
Many of them.
Knife marks.
Burns.
A puckered bullet wound.
“What happened to you?”
“Life.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have tonight.”
She tied the bandage.
Their faces were suddenly close.
Josie became aware of his eyes.
Not flint now.
Just gray.
Tired.
Human.
She moved back.
“Done.”
“Thank you.”
Later, Josie lay awake.
Judson slept across the room.
She thought about his shaking hands after the avalanche.
She thought about the fact that he had thrown himself between her and death without hesitation.
No one had ever done that.
A week later, travelers arrived unexpectedly.
Three trappers asked to shelter from the storm.
Judson let them in.
One recognized Josie immediately.
“Well, I'll be damned. Amos Hale's girl.”
Josie stiffened.
The man grinned.
“Heard Rourke bought himself a bride for some flour.”
Judson slowly lowered his coffee cup.
The trapper laughed.
“Hell of a bargain, Judson.”
Josie felt the old humiliation rise.
Before she could leave the room, Judson stood.
The cabin suddenly seemed smaller.
“I didn't buy her.”
The trapper’s smile faltered.
“Just joking.”
“Then find another joke.”
“Easy.”
Judson stepped closer.
“And you'll call her Miss Hale.”
The trapper glanced toward Josie.
Something in Judson’s expression changed his mind about arguing.
“Miss Hale.”
That night, after the travelers were sleeping in the barn, Josie stood beside the fire.
“You didn't have to defend me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
Judson stared into the flames.
“Because people believe silence means permission.”
Josie swallowed.
“My father believed silence meant obedience.”
“Your father was wrong.”
She turned toward him.
“What happened in Cheyenne?”
Judson’s expression closed.
“You heard that story.”
“Everyone has.”
“Which version?”
“The one where you crushed a man's skull.”
His eyes darkened.
Josie waited.
At last he said, “I hit a man.”
“Did he die?”
“No.”
“Why did you hit him?”
Judson was quiet for a long moment.
Then he answered.
“Because he wouldn't stop beating his wife.”
Josie stared.
“He broke her jaw in the street. People watched.”
“So you stopped him.”
“Yes.”
“And that's why everyone calls you a killer?”
“Stories travel faster than truth.”
The words settled over the room.
Josie suddenly wondered how many of the things she feared about Judson had ever been real.
He stood.
“Get some sleep.”
He started toward his blanket.
“Judson?”
He looked back.
“You can sleep in the bed tonight.”
His eyebrows rose slightly.
Josie quickly added, “On your side.”
A faint smile appeared under his beard.
“Understood.”
They lay beneath separate blankets with nearly three feet between them.
Josie stared at the ceiling.
Judson faced away.
After several minutes she whispered, “Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“You’re nearly falling off the edge.”
“I know.”
“You don't have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
Josie smiled into the darkness.
For the first time in years, she fell asleep without wondering what the morning would cost her.