She followed.
The climb nearly defeated her.
Amos set a hard pace because darkness did not negotiate.
She stumbled.
Got up.
Slipped again.
Did not ask him to slow.
That interested him.
After fifteen minutes she said:
“These boots were not made for ice.”
“Should’ve considered that before coming up a logging road in January.”
“I did not select the road.”
“That coach did not steer itself.”
“The driver claimed the lower bridge had washed out.”
“It didn’t.”
She stopped.
Amos turned.
“What?”
“The lower bridge is frozen solid.”
The woman stared.
“Are you certain?”
“I crossed it yesterday.”
Something changed in her face.
Not fear.
Calculation.
Amos filed that away.
“Keep moving.”
“Wait.”
“No.”
“Someone lied to me.”
“Probably.”
“Does that not concern you?”
“No.”
“That is an astonishing answer.”
“You are alive.”
“For now.”
“That is the concern.”
She followed him again.
Snow started before they reached the cabin.
Heavy flakes.
Too fast.
The storm had accelerated.
Amos opened the door and gestured inside.
“Move.”
She entered.
His cabin consisted of one main room, a tiny lean-to pantry, and a loft used for storage.
Wooden walls.
A cast-iron stove.
One narrow bed.
Worktable.
Shelves.
Jars.
Tools.
Hides.
A rifle rack.
Nothing decorative except a faded piece of blue ribbon tied around a nail near the window.
Lavinia noticed it.
Amos noticed her noticing.
He turned away.
“Get near the stove.”
She shivered violently now.
He built the fire hotter.
Then looked at her hem.
Frozen mud clung to the dress.
“Take those clothes off.”
Her head lifted sharply.
“No.”
“They’re wet.”
“I heard you.”
“You’ll keep losing heat.”
“I am not undressing in front of a stranger.”
Amos pulled a gray wool blanket from his chest.
Set it on the table.
Then turned his back.
“Fine.”
She stared.
Amos sat at his workbench, laid the rifle across his knees, and began cleaning it.
“I won’t look.”
Silence.
Then:
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
That answer seemed to unsettle her more than reassurance.
He continued wiping the barrel.
“Trust cold.”
“It will kill you whether you approve of me or not.”
A long pause.
Then wet fabric rustled behind him.
Boots dropped.
Heavy skirts hit the floor.
Minutes later the woman said:
“I’m covered.”
Amos turned.
She stood wrapped in the blanket, still shivering.
Her posture was rigid with dignity.
He looked down.
Blood.
A small pool beneath her left foot.
“Sit.”
She followed his gaze.
“I didn’t feel that.”
“Cold.”
He brought a basin.
A bottle.
Bandages.
She lifted the blanket just enough to expose her shin.
The wound below her knee was ugly but cleanable.
Amos knelt.
Then stopped.
His hands hovered over her skin.
Twenty-three years.
He suddenly felt every one of them.
Lavinia looked down.
“What is it?”
Amos’s fingers curled.