Then leaned forward.
"From now on, no more secrets about this."
She nodded.
"No more secrets."
But the oldest and most important secret remained inside the envelope she hadn't yet shown me.
And I was about to discover that the truth Eliza left behind would change the meaning of my entire past.
The envelope appeared three nights later.
It was the seventh of April, and a cold rain had begun falling outside the cabin. The last drifts of winter were melting along the lower meadow, turning the trail into mud and filling the stream with water that rushed noisily beneath the old footbridge.
I'd spent the afternoon repairing Josephine's wagon.
The new frame was broader than the original sleigh, reinforced with carefully joined timber and fitted with iron supports. The wheels came from an abandoned freight cart I'd purchased years earlier, and I had repaired their hubs during the winter.
It wasn't beautiful.
But it was sturdy.
And it would allow Josephine to travel when the lower road became passable.
I also packed a leather bag with supplies.
Cornmeal.
Dried fruit.
A small coffee tin.
Matches.
And the folding knife I'd carried on cattle drives since I was thirty.
Josephine watched from beside the fire.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she asked.
"Are those for me?"
I nodded.
"Thought you'd need supplies for the trip."
Her expression tightened.
"When?"
I looked toward the window.
"Maybe a week. Depends on the road."
She lowered her eyes.
For several seconds, the room was quiet.
Then she said.
"You make it sound as though the whole winter was something we're supposed to pack away."
I turned toward her.
"Josephine."
She looked up.
Her eyes were shining.
"Tell me you want me to go, Hiram. If you really want that, I'll leave."
I felt my throat tighten.
I wanted to tell her the truth.
That the cabin would never feel the same without her.
That I woke each morning listening for her voice.
That sometimes, when she was asleep, I sat near the fire thinking how impossible it seemed that a man who'd spent twenty years running from tenderness had found himself desperate to be loved.
But I couldn't make the words come.
Instead, I said.
"You're twenty-five."
She stared.
"I'm aware."
"I'm fifty-four."
Her expression changed.
"Do you think I've forgotten?"
I looked away.
"You deserve a future."
She took a slow breath.