"And you think you don't?"
I couldn't answer.
Josephine asked me to come closer.
I hesitated.
Then walked toward the broad wooden bed.
She sat near its edge wearing the beautiful dusty-rose dress she'd been working on for weeks. The fabric had been carefully tailored and adjusted to fit her immense figure comfortably, with delicate lace around the neckline and sleeves.
I'd noticed the gown before.
She told me it was originally made for a celebration she never attended.
During the winter, she'd altered it because she wanted something beautiful to wear when the snow finally melted.
I hadn't understood why.
Now, looking at her, I began to.
The gown wasn't about impressing a town full of strangers.
It was about reminding herself that the woman beneath all those hardships still deserved joy.
Josephine raised one hand.
I stood close enough for her to touch my cheek.
Her fingers moved through my beard.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, every sensible warning disappeared.
I wanted to bend down.
Kiss her.
And tell her that the thought of another winter without her frightened me more than any blizzard.
But I remained still.
"Hiram," she whispered, "look at me."
I opened my eyes.
She was crying.
"Do you want me?"
The question struck me like a hammer.
I swallowed.
"More than I ought to."
She shook her head.
"That's not an answer."
I looked toward the fire.
Then back at her.
"Yes."
Her lips trembled.
"Then why do you keep trying to send me away?"
I felt tears rising.
"Because I'm afraid you'll wake up ten years from now and regret spending your life with an old man who's already buried most of his dreams."
Josephine studied me.
Then whispered.
"What if I want to help you build new ones?"
I couldn't speak.
She gently pulled my hand toward hers.
For one suspended moment, we sat together in the warmth of the cabin, close enough to hear each other's breathing.
Then she reached into a concealed pocket in the folds of her gown.
And brought out the envelope.
The sight of my name stopped everything.
Hiram Walker.
Eliza's handwriting.
Twenty years old.
Impossible to mistake.
I recognized the long curved stroke on the H, the narrow space between my first and last names, and the tiny upward flourish she placed beneath the final letter.
I had seen those shapes on love notes.
Shopping lists.