The man laughed.
"Good luck."
William ignored him.
He carried the intruder into the small storage room adjoining the kitchen, where a heavy interior door could be secured from outside. He searched him for additional weapons, placed a lantern where it could not be reached from the floor, and made certain the injured man could breathe comfortably while awaiting medical attention and the sheriff.
When he returned, I was washing Annie's bowl.
The little girl had fallen asleep in the chair beside the fireplace.
Her head rested against a folded blanket.
William stopped when he saw her.
For a long moment, he simply stared.
Then he covered his face.
I approached quietly.
"William."
He shook his head.
"I buried her."
The words were barely audible.
I felt my throat tighten.
"What?"
He looked at me.
"Seven years ago, they brought me a little coffin."
I stared.
He swallowed.
"They told me the river had taken her."
His voice broke.
"I carried that coffin up the hill myself."
I placed my hands against his chest.
He continued.
"I dug the grave."
Tears filled his eyes.
"I thought my little girl was inside."
I wrapped my arms around him.
He trembled.
For a moment, he looked nothing like the mountain man who frightened strangers.
He looked like a father who had spent seven years mourning a child who was now asleep beside his fire.
I held him tightly.
"Oh, William."
He pressed his forehead against mine.
"I don't understand."
"I know."
"Why would anyone do that?"
I glanced toward Annie.
Her small hands rested beneath the blanket.
Then I looked back at him.
"We're going to find out."
He closed his eyes.
I kissed his cheek.
"But not tonight."
His breathing slowed.
I continued.
"Tonight, she's warm."
He nodded.
"She's safe."
Another nod.
"And she knows you love her."
He looked toward the sleeping child.
For the first time since hearing her voice, something like relief entered his face.
"Yes."
I squeezed his hand.
"Then let's give her one peaceful night."
He drew me close.
And whispered, "Thank you."
I looked at him.
"For what?"
His eyes filled.
"For not turning away."
The words struck me deeply.
I understood what he meant.
He had never told me about this child.
He had allowed me to believe his first family was entirely gone.
Now that past had returned, frightened and hungry, into the middle of our marriage.
I could have been angry.
Part of me was.
I could have demanded explanations.
I could have asked why he had never shown me the little girl's photograph.