“I know.”
He opened them.
The woman whispered:
“Kiss me.”
He froze.
Her stomach dropped.
Perhaps she had misread everything.
Then he asked:
“Are you sure?”
She nearly cried.
Not because of the question itself.
Because nobody had ever asked it.
“Yes.”
He still did not move.
She smiled through tears.
“You may need instructions.”
“I probably do.”
“Lean down.”
He obeyed.
“Slower.”
He slowed.
Her hand slid into his beard.
Their lips met.
Gentle.
Awkward.
The mountain man pulled away after barely a second.
Her eyes opened.
“What?”
“Did I hurt you?”
She laughed softly.
“No.”
“Did I do it wrong?”
“Yes.”
His face fell.
She smiled.
“You stopped.”
He blinked.
She pulled him closer.
“Try again.”
The second kiss lasted longer.
No urgency.
No possession.
The storm outside weakened into soft snow.
When they separated, his forehead rested against hers.
The woman whispered:
“You’re trembling.”
“So are you.”
“I’m cold.”
“I’m terrified.”
She laughed.
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
“That is very satisfying.”
He smiled.
Then horses approached outside.
Both immediately straightened.
The mountain man reached for his rifle.
The woman grabbed the iron poker.
He looked at her.
“What?”
she asked.
“Nothing.”
Three riders appeared.
Not robbers.
One wore a marshal’s coat.
The mountain man lowered the rifle.
By noon, everything changed again.
The marshal knew the names of the attackers.
They belonged to a land syndicate operating through intermediaries in Denver.
The stagecoach attack had not been spontaneous.
Someone had learned the attorney in Baltimore sent papers west.
A telegraph message arrived days before her stagecoach.
The syndicate sent men to intercept.
The deed was genuine.
So were the mineral rights.
The water rights were complicated.
The mountain man’s competing claim was also legitimate enough to require court review.
The woman looked toward him when the marshal explained.
He did not hide.
That mattered.
The marshal transported them to the nearest settlement.
The town reacted immediately.
A beautiful very large widow arriving beside the notorious mountain recluse provided entertainment for people starved of novelty.
Whispers followed them.
The woman recognized the sound.
She had heard it her whole life.
“Poor thing.”
“So large.”
“Pretty face though.”
“Imagine finding dresses.”
“Mountain man probably doesn’t care.”
“Maybe that’s why he lives alone.”
Her shoulders slowly curled inward.
The mountain man noticed.
Outside the hotel, two women looked openly at her waist.
One whispered.
The woman pretended not to hear.
The mountain man stopped.