The trail finally opened six days later.
The rancher prepared his horse before sunrise.
He packed supplies, checked the saddle, and repaired a loose buckle on his equipment.
The woman watched from the doorway.
She wore her burgundy dress beneath a heavy wool shawl, her chestnut hair pinned carefully.
Her expression was calm.
Too calm.
He recognized it.
He approached.
“Darling?”
She looked up.
“Yes?”
He studied her.
“You're doing that thing again.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“What thing?”
“Pretending you're not worried.”
She looked down.
He waited.
Finally, she whispered, “I don't like goodbyes.”
His expression softened.
“Neither do I.”
She looked toward the horse.
He followed her gaze.
Then he stepped closer.
“I should be able to return within a few days if the trail holds.”
She nodded.
“And if it doesn't?”
He considered the question.
“Then I'll come when I safely can.”
She swallowed.
He gently lifted her chin.
“I won't make a promise the weather can break. But I am planning to return.”
Her eyes filled.
He continued.
“And if I'm delayed, it won't mean I've changed my mind.”
She nodded slowly.
For several seconds, they remained quiet.
Then she reached into her apron pocket.
“Before you go.”
He looked down.
She withdrew the pair of wool-lined mittens.
He smiled.
“Thought those were mine already.”
“They are.”
She placed them in his hands.
“But you left them beside the stove.”
He laughed.
“Reckon I need somebody keeping track of me.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Clearly.”
He stepped closer.
Then kissed her gently.
When he drew back, she rested her forehead against his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
They remained that way for a long moment.
Then she whispered, “Come back because you want to.”
He kissed her hair.
“I will.”
She closed her eyes.
He stepped back.
Then he climbed onto his horse.
She watched him ride toward the trees.
At the edge of the clearing, he turned.
He raised one hand.
She lifted hers.
Then he disappeared around the bend.
The cabin became quiet.
For several minutes, she remained in the doorway.
Then she turned back inside.
The fire needed tending.
The bread dough was rising.
Her sewing work lay beside the chair.
She had a life to continue.
She reminded herself of that.
But when she reached the table, she saw the little carved picture frame resting beside the lantern.
Two hands.
One scarred.
One full.
Together.
She touched the carving.
Then she sat down and cried.
Not because she believed he had lied.