He had also learned that she hated being treated as helpless.
She was an excellent cook, an accomplished seamstress, and one of the most resourceful people he had ever met.
Her pantry shelves were carefully organized.
Her firewood was stacked where she could reach it.
Her clothes were beautifully made.
And the preserves she prepared during the summer had saved his miserable cooking more than once.
He knew these things because she had begun exchanging food and sewing work for the meat and supplies he delivered.
Neither of them liked feeling indebted.
They had found a way to help each other without making either person's dignity part of the bargain.
Tonight, however, the woman wasn't interested in discussing payment.
She watched him turn toward the door again.
“Please don't leave.”
He stopped.
His jaw tightened.
“Woman, you're going to have to stop saying that.”
“Why?”
“Because eventually I'll listen.”
She became very still.
For a moment, the sound of the blizzard seemed to fade.
Then she whispered, “Would that be so terrible?”
He looked at her.
Firelight touched her round cheeks, illuminating the delicate curls framing her face. Her green eyes were filled with something painfully close to hope.
He wanted to reach for her.
He wanted to touch her cheek.
He wanted to tell her that he'd begun planning his journeys around the possibility of hearing her laugh.
Instead, he looked away.
“You deserve somebody whole.”
Her expression changed.
“What does that mean?”
He held up his damaged left hand.
Three fingers were permanently scarred, and the tips of two were missing from an old winter injury.
“Means I've got more broken pieces than useful ones.”
She looked at his hand.
Then she looked into his eyes.
“I've never asked you to be perfect.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don't understand.”
She took a slow breath.
“Then explain.”
He said nothing.
The woman looked toward the stone fireplace.
Several logs burned beneath an iron cooking pot. Fresh bread rested on the wooden table, and the scent of rosemary, onions, and venison filled the room.
Everything about the cabin felt warm.
Safe.
Lived in.
The rancher had spent four years convincing himself that those things belonged to another life.
A life that had ended when fever took his wife.
A life he could never recover.
He turned toward the doorway.
“I should go.”
The woman's expression crumpled.
For a moment, he thought she might cry.
Instead, she reached into the pocket of her apron.
“Then take this.”
He glanced toward her hand.