Spring came slowly to Fletcher Mountain.
First came dripping roofs.
Then exposed stones.
Then narrow veins of brown earth appeared beneath retreating snow.
Beatrice celebrated every patch of ground as if she had personally negotiated its return.
One morning she stepped outside without wrapping a scarf around her face.
“Almost warm,” she announced.
Boone looked at the thermometer nailed beside the door.
“Thirty-eight.”
“Practically summer.”
“You’re strange.”
“You married me.”
“That may support my argument.”
She threw a dishcloth at him.
He caught it.
The ease between them still surprised her.
Months earlier every silence had felt hostile.
Now some silences felt comfortable.
Some felt intimate.
And a few frightened her because she understood exactly what lived inside them.
Affection.
Maybe more.
Neither spoke about it.
Boone remained Boone.
When Beatrice prepared his favorite biscuits, he said only, “Good.”
When he repaired the heel of her boot, he insisted it was because listening to her limp was annoying.
They had become experts at caring for one another while pretending not to.
Then, one Tuesday morning, Boone destroyed her chair.
Beatrice was in the pantry when she heard the sound.
CRACK.
She turned.
Another crash came from outside.
She walked toward the window.
Boone stood beside the porch.
The heavy wooden chair from the hearth was in his hands.
Before Beatrice could understand what he was doing, he threw it toward the woodpile.
It struck hard.
One leg snapped.
The back split.
The chair collapsed into pieces.
Beatrice froze.
Boone stared at the wreckage.
Then he looked toward the window.
Their eyes met.
He had seen her.
She waited for an explanation.
None came.
Boone gathered several pieces and carried them toward the work shed.
Beatrice stepped outside.
“What are you doing?”
“Chair was bad.”
Her chest tightened.
“Bad?”
“Broken.”
“It wasn’t broken before you threw it.”
“Would’ve been.”
“Boone.”
He continued walking.
“Boone!”
He stopped but did not turn.
“That was the only chair in the house.”
“I know.”
“What am I supposed to sit on?”
“Bed.”
Beatrice stared at his back.
Something old and ugly stirred inside her.
Every insult she had heard about her body.
Every warning that furniture might not hold her.
Every look when she entered a room and needed a wider seat.
She remembered Boone measuring the chair weeks earlier.
Of course.
She had misunderstood.
He had not been repairing it.
He had been checking what she had done to it.
Her face burned.
“Was I breaking it?”
Boone turned.
“What?”
“The chair.”
He frowned.
“No.”
“You measured it.”
Understanding flickered over his face.
But instead of explaining, he said, “Forget it.”
That was the wrong answer.
“Forget it?”
“Beatrice—”
“Was I too heavy for it?”
“No.”
“Then why destroy it?”
He looked toward the work shed.
“I’m busy.”
She almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because fury needed somewhere to go.
“You spent all winter telling me women leave you. Have you ever considered that perhaps it is because speaking to you is like arguing with a locked door?”
His jaw tightened.
“Leave it.”
“Fine.”
She walked inside.
The door slammed behind her.
For the rest of the day Beatrice spoke only when necessary.
Boone seemed to realize he had made a serious mistake.
He hovered near the kitchen twice.
The first time he asked whether she needed wood.
“No.”
The second time he asked whether she wanted him to carry flour from the storage shed.
“No.”
At supper she stood at the table.
Boone sat on the bench.
His eyes repeatedly moved toward her.
“Sit.”
“Where?”
“The bed.”
“I’m eating.”
“You can bring your plate.”
“I prefer the table.”
He rubbed his beard.
“You’re mad.”
“What extraordinary perception.”
“Beatrice.”
She took another bite.
He waited.
“What?”
He seemed on the verge of saying something.
Instead he stood.
“Nothing.”
She wanted to throw the plate at him.
That night Beatrice lay awake.
The loss of the chair should not have mattered so much.
It was ugly.
Too narrow.
Its back leaned slightly.
One leg wobbled.
But it had been the first place she sat after climbing the mountain.
It had been where Boone slept during their earliest nights.
Where she drank coffee.
Where he sat beside her during fever.
It had become part of the life she thought they were building.
And now it lay broken outside.
For the first time since winter, Beatrice wondered whether Boone still wanted her gone.
Perhaps spring had changed things.
Roads were open.
The stage ran regularly again.
Maybe Boone had simply tolerated her because sending a sick woman down a mountain in January would have killed her.
Now she was healthy.
Now escape was possible.
On the second day Boone disappeared into the work shed before breakfast.
Hammering began.
Beatrice ignored it.
At noon he came inside covered in sawdust.
“Lunch?”
“On the stove.”
“You eating?”
“Later.”
He stood awkwardly.
“Beatrice.”
She continued kneading bread.
His boots shifted.
“I didn’t break the chair because of you.”
Her hands stopped.
She looked over her shoulder.
“Then why?”
Boone opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“Forget it.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Get out of my kitchen.”
He did.
The hammering resumed.
By the third day Beatrice had made a decision.
If Boone wanted her to leave, he could say it.
She would not beg.
She had spent too many years being grateful for scraps of acceptance.
She had climbed his mountain herself.
Survived his winter.
She would descend with the same dignity.
That afternoon she opened her trunk.
Most of her belongings had long since been distributed around the cabin.
She folded one dress.
Then stopped.
The thought of packing made her chest ache.
She looked at the small flour-sack curtains she had sewn.
The shelf Boone lowered for her.
The hook he installed for her coat.
The boots he repaired.
Her brush beside his razor.
Her mug beside his.
A life had formed here so quietly that she had not noticed until she contemplated dismantling it.
Her eyes filled.
She hated that.
Beatrice O’Reilly did not cry over men.
Certainly not one incapable of completing an emotional sentence.
She shoved the dress back into the trunk.
“No.”
If Boone wanted her gone, he would have to say it to her face.
That evening the work shed remained closed.
Boone did not appear for supper.
Beatrice ate alone.
Darkness settled.
Wind shook the trees.
Eventually concern overcame irritation.
She opened the cabin door.
Light showed beneath the shed.
“Boone!”
No answer.
She crossed the yard.
Before reaching it, she heard something heavy scrape across wood.
Then the shed door opened.
Boone emerged backward.
He carried something enormous.
For one terrible second Beatrice assumed it was some piece of equipment.
Then he turned.
It was a chair.
Not an ordinary chair.
It was the largest, strongest piece of furniture Beatrice had ever seen.
Built from thick pine.
Wide seat.
Broad arms.
Heavy reinforced legs.
A tall back shaped carefully from polished boards.
Boone carried it across the snow-muddied ground.
Beatrice could not move.
He passed her.
Walked into the cabin.
Placed it beside the fire.
Then stepped back.
Neither spoke.
Beatrice approached slowly.
Her fingers touched one arm.
Smooth.
He had sanded every edge.
The joints were reinforced with additional supports.
A padded cushion rested on the seat.
She recognized the fabric.
One of Boone’s old wool blankets.
Her throat tightened.
“What is this?”
Boone looked at the stove.
“A chair.”
“I can see that.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“The other one was too small.”
The words hit her so unexpectedly that she almost laughed.
Then she almost cried.
Instead she stared at him.
“You broke my chair because it was too small?”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me.”
“I was building this.”
“That does not prevent speech.”
“I wanted it finished.”
“For me?”
He finally looked at her.
“Who else?”
Beatrice swallowed.
All the humiliation she had carried for three days suddenly transformed into something warmer and more painful.
“You measured the old one.”
“To see what needed changing.”
She looked down at the seat.
“How much wider did you make it?”
Boone became uncomfortable.
“Enough.”
“Boone.”
“Six inches.”
“And the legs?”
“Braced.”
“The arms?”
“Moved out.”
“And this?”
She touched the cushion.
His ears turned red.
“Wood gets uncomfortable.”
Beatrice stared at those red ears.
Then she understood.
This was not simply furniture.
Boone had noticed.
He had noticed the way she shifted after sitting too long.
The way the narrow arms pressed against her hips.
The faint creak when she lowered herself.
Not to ridicule her.
Not to judge her.
To fix it.
She slowly sat.
The chair did not groan.
Did not wobble.
Did not complain.
It simply held her.
Comfortably.
Beatrice leaned back.
The arms fit perfectly.
Boone turned toward the stove as if nothing important had occurred.
She watched him.
“You finally think I’m staying?”
His shoulders became still.
He did not turn.
Beatrice waited.
Finally he said, “Built it like you are.”
Her heart beat faster.
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’ve got.”
She stood.
Boone looked at her then.
Beatrice crossed the room until only a few feet remained between them.
“You spent months waiting for me to leave.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still want me to?”
His gray eyes held hers.
“No.”
It was barely more than one word.
But from Boone Fletcher, it sounded like a confession.
Beatrice stepped closer.
“Good.”
His breathing changed.
“Why?”
“Because I’m staying.”
Neither moved.
Outside, melting snow ran from the roof.
Inside, the new chair waited beside the hearth.
And for Boone Fletcher, who had spent years believing everyone eventually left, the most terrifying possibility was no longer losing Beatrice.
It was admitting how desperately he wanted her to remain.