Then she looked toward the empty chair across the table.
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
He waited.
She continued.
“Very.”
He moved his chair closer.
She looked down.
“People think being alone is easier when you're accustomed to it.”
He nodded.
“They're wrong.”
She gave a sad smile.
“Yes.”
For several minutes, they sat beside the fire, talking quietly about things neither had shared with anyone in years.
He told her about the ranch.
The empty house.
The way he sometimes prepared enough coffee for two before remembering there was nobody else to drink it.
She told him about the cabin.
The long winters.
The evenings when she sat by the window watching the trail, hoping someone would pass simply so she could hear another human voice.
He confessed that he had often waited until dusk to deliver supplies because he liked seeing the lamplight shining through her windows.
She admitted that she sometimes baked bread earlier than necessary because she hoped he might arrive hungry.
They laughed at the foolishness of it.
Then they grew quiet.
The rancher looked toward the window.
Snow was piling against the glass.
The wind had become louder.
He stood carefully.
“I'd better check the stable before the drifts cover the door.”
The woman looked alarmed.
“Now?”
He nodded.
“My horse needs feed and water.”
She considered the storm.
Then she pointed toward a shelf beside the door.
“There's an extra lantern and a rope. Tie one end inside before you go.”
He looked at her.
She smiled faintly.
“You taught me that four winters ago.”
He frowned.
“I did?”
She nodded.
“During one of your clearer moments, you told me never to go into a whiteout without a line back to shelter.”
He stared.
Then he laughed softly.
“Well, that's sensible advice.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Even coming from a stubborn man?”
He smiled.
“Especially then.”
He took the rope.
He secured one end to a strong interior beam.
Then he put on his heavy coat, boots, and gloves.
Before opening the door, he looked back.
She was watching him.
Her expression carried the same fear he had seen when he first arrived.
He smiled gently.
“I'm only going to the stable.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
“I'll be back in a few minutes.”
She hesitated.
Then whispered, “Promise?”
He looked at her.
Four years earlier, he'd made promises he couldn't keep.
Tonight, he chose one he could.
“I promise I'll come back through that door.”
Then he opened it.
The storm rushed inside.