Mara had known fear before.
She knew what hunger felt like when flour ran out three days before payday. She knew what floodwater sounded like beneath a farmhouse floor. She knew the particular silence a violent man created when everyone in a room realized he had stopped pretending to be civilized.
But fire was different.
Fire did not argue.
It did not threaten.
It simply consumed.
“ABEL!”
Mara hit the bedroom door so hard it slammed against the wall.
She ran barefoot down the stairs.
Abel was already moving.
He came from the rear room pulling on his suspenders, rifle in one hand.
“What?”
“Porch!”
Orange light flashed through the front windows.
Abel opened the door.
Heat rolled inward.
“Stay inside!”
Mara shoved past him.
“No.”
“Mara!”
“There’s a pump outside.”
He stared at her.
“How do you—”
“I saw it when we arrived.”
She ran through the kitchen and grabbed two buckets.
Abel swore quietly.
Then he followed.
Flames crawled along the porch railing and had begun climbing a wooden support post.
A glass bottle lay shattered near the steps.
Kerosene.
Abel grabbed a blanket and beat at the fire.
Mara raced toward the hand pump.
The handle was frozen stiff.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
She threw her weight against it.
Nothing.
Again.
The metal shrieked.
Water sputtered.
Mara pumped harder.
Abel appeared with a barrel.
Together they formed a frantic rhythm.
Pump.
Fill.
Run.
Throw.
Smoke burned Mara’s lungs.
She slipped once on frozen mud, landed on one knee, rose immediately, and kept moving.
Minutes felt like hours.
Finally the flames weakened.
Then died.
Abel stood in the darkness breathing heavily.
Half the porch railing was blackened.
One support beam had charred.
The cabin remained standing.
Mara’s feet were numb.
Abel looked down.
“You’re barefoot.”
“So?”
“There’s ice.”
“I noticed.”
He walked toward her.
Before Mara realized his intention, Abel lifted her completely off the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you inside.”
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“I can walk.”
“I’m aware.”
“Abel.”
“Mara.”
She stared into his face.
His beard smelled faintly of smoke.
“You are extremely irritating.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“By women?”
“No.”
“That explains why it didn’t improve you.”
He carried her inside.
Mara told herself that the strange flutter beneath her ribs came from cold.
Abel set her in a chair near the fire.
Then he knelt.
Her amusement disappeared when he reached for her foot.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking for cuts.”
“I’m fine.”
“You ran barefoot over broken wood and frozen ground.”
His enormous hand closed gently around her ankle.
Mara stopped breathing for half a second.
Abel inspected one foot, then the other.
A thin line of blood marked her heel.
“There.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“Still needs cleaning.”
He stood and fetched a basin.
Mara watched him.
“You do this often?”
“Set my porch on fire?”
“Tend wounded women.”
“No.”
“You’re surprisingly capable.”
“I’ve lived alone eleven years.”
That silenced her.
“How old were you?”
“When?”
“When you started living alone.”
“Twenty-four.”
“Why?”
Abel’s hands stopped briefly.
Then he resumed cleaning her heel.
“My father died.”
“And your mother?”
“Before him.”
“Siblings?”
“One brother.”
Mara waited.
Abel tied clean cloth around her heel.
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
The answer came flat.
Not empty.
Guarded.
Mara had learned that difference.
“I’m sorry.”
Abel rose.
“Get some sleep.”
“You expect me to sleep after somebody tried burning the house?”
“Yes.”
“That might be the most unreasonable thing you’ve said.”
“I’ll stay awake.”
Mara looked at him.
“You think they’ll return.”
“Not tonight.”
“How do you know?”
“They wanted to frighten me.”
“And?”
“They failed.”
Mara folded her arms.
“They frightened me.”
Abel paused.
She continued before he could mistake honesty for weakness.
“And that makes me angry.”
Something warmed in his expression.
“Get dressed at daylight. We’ll go to town.”
“For the wedding?”
“To send you back.”
Mara stared.
Abel walked toward the door.
“No.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“I said no.”
“Mara—”
“You didn’t bring those men here.”
“I brought you here knowing Rourke wanted my land.”
“You didn’t know they would attack tonight.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
He turned around fully.
“You don’t understand what kind of man Silas Rourke is.”
“Then explain him.”
“He hires other people to do ugly things so his hands stay clean.”
“I’ve met that type.”
“He can make people disappear.”
“So can mountains.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
Abel lowered his voice.
“I advertised for a wife because I was tired of coming home to an empty cabin. I wasn’t asking someone to risk her life.”
Mara stood.
“I came because I was tired of spending my life being told what kind of existence I was allowed to have.”
Their eyes met.
“I had three proposals in Missouri,” she said. “Do you know why I refused them?”
Abel said nothing.
“One wanted a cook. One wanted somebody to care for his five children while he visited saloons. The third told me he could overlook my size if I agreed to become more obedient.”
Mara gave a humorless laugh.
“I told him I could overlook his stupidity if he agreed to become less alive.”
Abel’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“My aunt nearly fainted.”
“I imagine.”
“When I saw your advertisement, I didn’t think, ‘There’s a man who will rescue me.’ I thought, ‘There’s a mountain where I might finally get enough room to be myself.’”
The cabin fell silent.
“You don’t get to take that decision away from me because you’re scared,” Mara said.
Abel’s jaw tightened.
“I’m not scared.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You’ve known me less than a day.”
“And already I know exactly when you’re lying.”
That annoyed him.
Good.
Mara stepped closer.
“You’re scared that somebody will die because they came close to you.”
His expression went hard.
She had struck something.
“Who was it?”
“Enough.”
“Your brother?”
“Mara.”
“How did he die?”
Abel looked toward the fire.
“Rourke.”
One word.
Everything changed.
He eventually sat.
Mara lowered herself opposite him.
“Tell me.”
For a long while, the only sound was burning cedar.
Then Abel spoke.
“My brother Eli was twenty-two.”
Mara waited.
“He found silver above Black Creek. Not much. Enough to interest Rourke.”
“What happened?”
“Rourke offered to buy our claim.”
“You refused.”
“Eli refused.”
A muscle tightened in Abel’s jaw.
“I was away trapping. Rourke sent men to convince him.”
Mara already knew where this story ended.
“They beat him?”
“Worse.”
Abel stared into the fire.
“They left him in the snow.”
Mara’s anger arrived slowly and coldly.
“How long ago?”
“Eleven years.”
“That’s why you stayed here.”
“This mountain belongs to my family.”
“And selling would mean Rourke wins.”
“It would mean Eli died for nothing.”
Mara understood something then.
The empty cabin.
The isolation.
The order.
Abel Stone had not simply been living alone.
He had been standing guard over a grave for eleven years.
By morning, Mara had made her decision.
They went to Mercy Hollow.
But not to send her back.
She wore her best blue dress.
Abel wore a black coat that looked uncomfortable across his shoulders.
The entire town seemed to know before they arrived.
Mr. Pike stood outside the station.
Silas Rourke stood beside him.
Mara recognized power before anyone introduced the man.
Rourke was perhaps fifty, silver-haired and polished, dressed too finely for Mercy Hollow. He smiled as though every person he met had already agreed to something they did not understand.
“Mr. Stone.”
Abel stopped.
“Rourke.”
Rourke’s gaze moved to Mara.
“So this is the famous bride.”
“Mara Bell.”
She offered no hand.
Rourke smiled.
“I heard your first night on Wolfjaw was eventful.”
Mara’s eyes narrowed.
Abel stepped forward.
“How would you know?”
Rourke shrugged.
“Small towns.”
“Interesting,” Mara said.
He looked at her.
“The porch caught fire after midnight.”
Rourke’s smile became slightly thinner.
“Yes?”
“And you heard about it before nine in the morning.”
Mr. Pike suddenly looked uncomfortable.
Mara smiled.
“Very efficient gossip.”
Rourke studied her.
“You’re sharper than you look.”
“People keep making that mistake.”
Abel’s hand brushed her lower back.
Not controlling.
Protective.
Rourke noticed.
“You may want to reconsider this marriage, Miss Bell.”
“Why?”
“Wolfjaw is a difficult place for a woman.”
“So is a train when a rude man wants your seat.”
Someone nearby snorted.
Rourke ignored it.
“You could have an easier life.”
“Easy never impressed me.”
His eyes hardened.
He turned to Abel.
“My offer stands.”
“No.”
“It won’t forever.”
“Good.”
Abel guided Mara toward the church.
Behind them, Rourke called, “Mountains bury stubborn people, Stone.”
Mara stopped.
She turned.
“So do cemeteries, Mr. Rourke.”
Silence.
Mara smiled.
“Yet here you are.”
Abel nearly had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing.
They married forty minutes later.
It was not romantic by any conventional measure.
The preacher forgot Mara’s middle name.
A goat wandered through the church doorway.
Abel dropped the ring once because his enormous fingers fumbled it.
But when the preacher asked Mara whether she took Abel Stone as her lawful husband, she looked directly into the dark eyes of the giant stranger who had respected her choices from the moment they met.
“I do.”
When Abel answered, his voice was quiet.
“I do.”
The preacher pronounced them husband and wife.
Abel hesitated.
Mara whispered, “If you ask permission to kiss me after marrying me, I’m leaving.”
His eyes widened.
Then Abel Stone kissed his wife.
Mercy Hollow stopped breathing.
Mara expected awkwardness.
Instead, his enormous hand came gently against her cheek.
The kiss was careful.
Warm.
Short.
Too short.
When he pulled away, Mara stared at him.
“Well.”
Abel cleared his throat.
“Yes.”
“That’ll do.”
Several women laughed.
They returned to Wolfjaw before sunset.
That evening Mara cooked stew while Abel repaired the burned porch.
She stood in the doorway watching him.
For the first time in years, Abel Stone’s cabin smelled like supper cooked by someone waiting for him.
For the first time in years, Mara Bell had a place no one could order her to leave.
At least, that was what she believed.
Until Abel came inside holding something he had found nailed beneath the porch.
A strip of bloodstained cloth.
Wrapped inside was a message.
Three words.
SELL OR BURY HER.
Mara read it twice.
Then she lifted her eyes.
Abel looked furious.
Mara looked even angrier.
“They threatened the wrong wife,” she said.
---