"All right."
Josephine smiled triumphantly.
I raised one finger.
"But we travel properly. No foolish shortcuts through storms."
She laughed.
"Agreed."
Then she leaned toward me.
"And no pretending your shoulder is fine when it isn't."
I groaned.
"Lord preserve me."
She smiled.
"Too late, cowboy."
I laughed.
And for the first time, the prospect of leaving the mountains didn't feel like surrendering my peace.
It felt like beginning something.
We left the cabin on the morning of April twenty-third.
The valley was waking beneath a pale spring sun.
Snow lingered in shaded places, but the lower meadow had turned green, and the stream rushed between banks crowded with melting ice.
Copper stood beside Belle near the wagon, both horses newly groomed and rested.
Belle had recovered remarkably well from her ordeal in the ravine.
Josephine spent several minutes speaking softly to the mare before we harnessed the team.
I watched from beside the stable.
The sight made me smile.
Four months earlier, I thought the horse would die before sundown.
Now she stood strong and alert, waiting to pull a wagon down the mountain with the woman who loved her.
Life had a way of offering surprises when a man finally stopped expecting the worst.
The wagon's wide compartment was securely braced and fitted with a comfortable padded seat, protective rails, and a weather covering that could be adjusted as the temperature changed. We had planned the route carefully and arranged assistance at the lower freight station so Josephine wouldn't have to negotiate unsafe transfers or exhausting terrain.
Before departure, she looked toward the cabin.
For several seconds, her expression grew quiet.
"Are you going to miss it?"
I followed her gaze.
The little log building stood beneath the pines, smoke rising from its chimney.
I thought of the years I'd spent alone inside.
Then the laughter that filled it during the winter.
I smiled.
"Reckon I already do."
Josephine looked toward me.
"Then we'll come back."
I studied her.
She wasn't asking for a promise I couldn't keep.
She was imagining a future.
One in which the cabin belonged to both our memories.
I reached for her hand.
"Yes, ma'am."
Then I climbed onto the driver's bench.
And we began descending the mountain.
The journey took three days.
We traveled slowly, choosing established routes and stopping whenever the horses or Josephine needed rest.
The spring roads were muddy, and several stream crossings required careful inspection before we attempted them.