The attack came four nights later.
Not from men.
From the mountain.
Judson had gone out before dawn to check a trap line after a night of heavy snow.
He expected to return by noon.
At sunset, he was still gone.
Josie stood at the window watching the trail.
Tommy had returned to town the previous morning.
She was alone.
The sky darkened.
Wind rose.
Josie told herself not to panic.
Judson knew the mountains.
He had survived storms worse than this.
Seven o’clock.
Eight.
Nine.
Josie put on her coat.
She remembered Judson’s instructions.
Never leave the cabin at night during a storm.
Never travel alone if snow covered the trail.
Never chase somebody into the mountains unless you knew exactly where they had gone.
She also remembered something else.
Judson had shown her his trap route.
“You’re not coming,” he had said then.
“I’m learning.”
“Why?”
“In case you fall down a mountain.”
He had laughed.
Now the joke no longer seemed funny.
Josie packed blankets.
Matches.
A lantern.
Food.
The pistol.
She strapped on snowshoes.
Then she opened the door.
Wind nearly knocked her backward.
“Fine,” she muttered. “I hate you too.”
She stepped into the storm.
Tracking was nearly impossible.
But Josie knew the route.
North through the pines.
East at the granite shelf.
Down toward a frozen creek.
Every hundred yards she shouted.
“Judson!”
Wind swallowed his name.
An hour passed.
Her legs burned.
Her fingers became numb.
Then she noticed something dark near a fallen pine.
Blood.
Josie’s heart stopped.
“Judson!”
A faint sound answered.
She ran.
He lay ten yards below the trail beside a broken branch.
One leg twisted unnaturally.
Blood covered the side of his head.
Josie slid down.
“Judson.”
His eyes opened.
“Josie?”
Relief and anger flashed across his face simultaneously.
“What are you doing here?”
She almost laughed.
“Saving the man who told me never to come out in storms.”
“You shouldn’t…”
“Quiet.”
His eyes closed.
Josie touched his cheek.
“Stay awake.”
“Bossy.”
“You taught me.”
She examined his leg.
Not broken, she hoped.
Badly injured.
The real problem was his head.
He had fallen when snow beneath the ridge gave way.
Josie could not carry him.
She built a small fire behind a windbreak.
Then she wrapped Judson in blankets.
“What happened?”
“Deer trap snapped branch.”
“You got attacked by a tree?”
“Mean tree.”
Despite terror, she smiled.
Judson drifted.
“Stay awake.”
“I’m awake.”
“You’re not.”
“Am now.”
Josie looked toward the cabin.
Too far.
She needed help.
But town was farther.
Judson’s horse might follow if she could reach the stable.
That meant leaving him.
She hated the idea.
Judson seemed to understand.
“Go.”
“No.”
“Josie.”
“I said no.”
“You can’t drag me.”
“I know.”
“Need horse.”
“I know.”
“Then go.”
Her eyes filled.
“What if you fall asleep?”
“I’ll wake up.”
“You don’t know that.”
Judson looked at her.
Even injured, his gaze remained steady.
“You came through that storm alone.”
“So?”
“So I reckon you’re tougher than either of us thought.”
Josie swallowed.
“I learned from you.”
“No.”
His voice became softer.
“You already were.”
Those words followed her all the way back.
She found Judson’s horse in the stable.
The animal resisted the storm but eventually followed.
It took nearly three hours to bring Judson home.
By dawn, Josie had him in the bed.
For the first time since arriving, Judson slept there.
She sat on the floor beside him.
The reversal almost made her smile.
His fever began that afternoon.
Josie used everything she had learned from watching him.
Cool cloths.
Willow bark.
Water.
Broth.
Judson drifted in and out of consciousness.
During one fevered spell, he spoke Caleb’s name.
Another time he whispered, “Anna.”
Josie froze.
Anna.
The supposed wife?
She waited until the fever broke two days later.
Judson opened his eyes.
Josie sat beside him.
“You’re alive.”
He frowned.
“Disappointed?”
“Terribly.”
He attempted to sit up.
Pain stopped him.
“Stay.”
“You enjoy giving orders.”
“I’m adapting.”
Judson settled back.
After several minutes, Josie asked quietly, “Who was Anna?”
His expression changed.
“You said her name.”
Judson looked toward the ceiling.
“A girl.”
“Your wife?”
“No.”
“People say you had one.”
“People say a lot.”
Josie waited.
Judson sighed.
“Anna was the woman in Cheyenne.”
“The one whose husband had the knife?”
He nodded.
Josie finally understood.
“You loved her?”
“No.”
“But you cared.”
“She was scared.”
Judson looked toward the fire.
“After her husband died, everybody blamed her. Said she must’ve provoked him. Said I killed him because we were having an affair.”
“That wasn’t true.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“I gave her money for a train.”
“And she went east.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell people?”
Judson’s face hardened.
“Wouldn’t have mattered.”
Josie understood that too.
People loved a scandal more than a correction.
She looked at him.
“You keep rescuing women people treat badly.”
Judson grimaced.
“I don’t rescue anybody.”
“You rescued me.”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I gave your father flour.”
“And took me out of that house.”
“You walked out yourself.”
Josie became quiet.
Judson turned his head.
“You think strength means never needing help.”
She looked at him.
“It doesn’t.”
“What does it mean?”
“Knowing help ain’t the same as ownership.”
Her eyes burned.
Judson’s words settled somewhere deep inside her.
She had spent months trying to decide whether he had saved her.
Perhaps that was the wrong question.
He had opened a door.
She had walked through it.
Two days later, Judson could stand.
A week later, he limped around the cabin complaining about being “perfectly useful.”
Josie refused to let him go outside.
“You enjoy this too much,” he muttered.
“Yes.”
He sat near the fire.
Josie placed a bowl of stew in front of him.
Judson looked toward the bed.
“You been sleeping on the floor.”
“Problem?”
“Floor and you understand each other?”
She smiled.
“Exactly.”
His expression softened.
“Take the bed tonight.”
“No.”
“Josie.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You’re impossible.”
She leaned against the table.
“You know something strange?”
“What?”
“When I first came here, I thought the bed was the most frightening thing in this cabin.”
Judson went still.
Josie continued.
“I thought kindness meant somebody was preparing to collect something.”
His eyes lowered.
“I know.”
“But you never did.”
“No.”
She stepped closer.
“Why?”
Judson looked up.
“I told you.”
“Because I was hungry?”
“At first.”
“And after?”
Silence stretched between them.
The fire crackled.
Judson’s voice became quiet.
“After, I liked hearing you laugh.”
Josie stopped breathing.
Judson looked uncomfortable for perhaps the first time since she had known him.
She smiled.
“That might be the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me.”
“Then people around you been fools.”
Josie laughed.
Judson smiled.
Nothing more happened that night.
No declaration.
No kiss.
No dramatic promise.
Only two people sitting beside a winter fire, slowly understanding that the arrangement neither had chosen was becoming a life neither wanted to lose.