His scarred hand closed around the worn material.
Then he looked at her.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She swallowed.
“Because I didn't want you to feel you owed me your company.”
He frowned.
“What?”
Her voice trembled.
“You started coming here with meat last winter. I recognized you almost immediately.”
He stared.
She continued.
“At first, I thought I'd tell you. Then you stayed long enough to talk about the mountains. You asked about my sewing. You laughed at my terrible bread the first time I burned it.”
A faint smile moved across her face.
“And I realized I wanted you to know me for who I am now. Not because I once helped you.”
The rancher shook his head slowly.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“Four years.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
He looked at the glove.
Then at her.
His eyes filled.
“I thought I dreamed you.”
She stepped closer, moving carefully with one hand on the sturdy rail beside the table.
“I'm real.”
He stared at her.
The words struck harder than anything else she could have said.
I'm real.
For four years, he had lived among memories.
The voice of his dead wife.
The warmth of a home that no longer existed.
The vague figure of a stranger who had saved him.
And now one of those memories stood directly in front of him, looking frightened that he might walk away.
He set the glove on the table.
Then he gently took her hand.
Her fingers disappeared beneath his enormous palm.
“I'm sorry.”
She looked confused.
“For what?”
“For making you ask me to stay.”
Her lips trembled.
He stepped closer.
“For making you think I didn't want to.”
She looked up at him.
“Do you?”
His jaw tightened.
He had spent years trying not to answer that question.
Now the storm was roaring outside.
The woman he had wanted to know stood before him.
And the glove he'd lost on the worst night of his life lay between them.
He nodded.
“More than you know.”
She began crying.
He raised his scarred left hand and gently touched her cheek.
She closed her eyes.
Then she leaned into his palm.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Finally, he whispered, “I don't know how to do this anymore.”
She opened her eyes.
“Do what?”
“Stay.”
Her expression softened.
“Then start with supper.”
A broken laugh escaped him.
He lowered his forehead toward hers.
And for the first time in four years, the lonely mountain rancher allowed himself to imagine a night that did not end with him walking away.