The pass wouldn't be reasonably safe for months.
And the young woman who arrived in my life with nothing but a broken sleigh, a weary horse, and a secret she wouldn't explain was about to change every part of it.
By the third day, Josephine had recovered enough strength to begin complaining about the state of my cabin.
I was chopping wood outside when she called through the open doorway.
"Hiram Walker!"
I leaned the ax against a stump.
"What?"
"Have you ever cleaned the shelf above your stove?"
I looked toward the cabin.
"Probably."
"Recently?"
I considered the question.
"What year is it?"
She burst out laughing.
I went inside and found her pointing toward a layer of dust thick enough to grow potatoes. She'd managed to organize the supplies within reach of her resting platform and had discovered that my idea of household order consisted largely of knowing which piles contained things I needed.
"That's not dust," I informed her. "That's insulation."
She raised one eyebrow.
"Then your insulation smells like old bacon."
I pretended to be offended.
"Women travel eighteen miles into the wilderness just to criticize a man's housekeeping?"
Her smile changed slightly.
For a brief moment, she looked toward the window.
Then answered, "Sometimes they do."
I remembered the words later.
At the time, I thought nothing of them.
Josephine's size required changes to the cabin that I couldn't accomplish simply by moving a chair or widening a passage.
The original sleeping platform was too small, and the cabin's old furniture wasn't built to support her safely. I had timber in the shed, heavy bolts salvaged from an abandoned freight wagon, and enough experience to construct a broad, reinforced bed that would distribute her weight across solid supports rather than placing it on ordinary furniture legs.
I explained my plan one morning over coffee.
Josephine listened carefully.
Then asked whether I intended to build the entire thing without consulting her.
I frowned.
"Reckon I know something about carpentry."
"And I reckon I know something about being the person who has to use it."
That stopped me.
She wasn't angry.
But she was right.
I pulled a chair closer and asked what height would make it easier for her to transfer from the padded bench, which supports she preferred, and how much room she needed to move without feeling trapped.
She answered thoughtfully.
We discussed rails, the width of the platform, and the best place near the fireplace for warmth without excessive heat.