Not even with the enormous mountain man asking her to marry him only after she had demanded that he wait until life became boring.
The difficult part came later.
After the wedding.
After the legal papers had been signed.
After the syndicate men disappeared into prison cells, neighboring territories, or the convenient protection of wealthier employers who had never dirtied their own hands.
After newspapers stopped mentioning the attack.
After townspeople found newer scandals.
After the land stopped being a battlefield and became simply land again.
That was when the woman had to learn whether the mountain man’s tenderness had been created by danger—or whether it could survive laundry, money, winter mud, illness, silence, and mornings when neither of them felt particularly romantic.
The answer did not come all at once.
It arrived in pieces.
The first piece came three weeks after their wedding.
The woman woke before sunrise and discovered that the mountain man had moved his blankets to the floor.
She sat upright in bed.
At first, fear.
Immediate.
Ancient.
Her first husband had often used silence as punishment.
If she disappointed him, he withdrew affection before she even knew the offense.
Sometimes he slept in another room and made her ask why.
He liked making her confess to crimes she did not understand.
So when she saw the mountain man sleeping beside the fireplace instead of next to her, something inside her tightened before reason could intervene.
She sat there staring at his enormous shape beneath the wool blanket.
He looked uncomfortable.
One arm covered his eyes.
One boot remained on.
He had apparently fallen asleep without properly preparing.
That made her angrier.
If he had deliberately chosen the floor, why pretend otherwise?
She pushed aside the blankets.
The cabin was cold.
She wrapped the burgundy shawl around herself and crossed the room.
“Wake up.”
Nothing.
She nudged his shoulder.
“Wake up.”
The mountain man opened one eye.
Then both.
He looked confused.
“Fire?”
“No.”
“Someone outside?”
“No.”
He sat up.
“What happened?”
The woman crossed her arms.
“You tell me.”
His expression became more confused.
“What?”
“Why are you down here?”
He looked at the floor.
Then toward the bed.
Then back at her.
“Oh.”
Her chest tightened.
“Oh?”
He rubbed one hand across his beard.
“You were coughing.”
She stared.
“What?”
“You kept coughing.”
“So?”
“You finally fell asleep.”
“And?”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
Her anger stalled.
The mountain man continued.