Why he had not told me the full story.
Why he had allowed me to enter a marriage without knowing how deeply his grief still controlled him.
Those questions mattered.
But the child mattered more that night.
I touched his face.
"William, I married you because you made room for me in your life."
He swallowed.
I smiled gently.
"I'm not going to punish a frightened little girl for needing room too."
He began crying again.
I kissed him.
Then together, we carried Annie to the small bedroom near the back of the cabin.
William had built it during the summer, imagining we might someday need a place for visiting relatives.
Now it held his daughter.
I found a warm nightdress that could be adjusted to fit her.
Washed the dirt from her hands.
Combed her tangled hair as gently as I could.
She stirred once.
Looked toward me.
Then whispered, "Are you staying?"
I smiled.
"Until you're asleep."
She nodded.
Then reached for my hand.
I sat beside her.
William stood in the doorway.
The little girl looked toward him.
"Papa?"
He stepped closer.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"You're not leaving?"
He shook his head.
"No."
She smiled faintly.
"Good."
Then she closed her eyes.
Within minutes, she was asleep.
William remained beside the bed for nearly an hour.
He held her tiny hand.
Watched her breathe.
And occasionally brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.
I sat nearby.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, when the house was quiet, William whispered, "She used to sleep like that."
I looked at him.
"How?"
"With one hand open beside her face."
He smiled through tears.
"Even when she was a baby."
I looked toward the child.
Her hand rested exactly as he described.
The sight filled me with a strange tenderness.
I had known Annie for only a few hours.
But already I wanted her to feel safe.
Not because she was my husband's daughter.
Because she was a little girl who had apparently spent much of her life believing she could be taken away at any moment.
And no child should have to live that way.
The following morning, the storm weakened.
Gray light entered through the windows.
William rose early and checked the trail.
I prepared breakfast.
Annie appeared in the kitchen wearing the warm nightdress and one of my knitted shawls wrapped around her shoulders.
She stood uncertainly in the doorway.
I smiled.
"Good morning."
She looked toward the table.
"Morning."
"Did you sleep well?"
She nodded.
Then asked, "Can I help?"