He had handled wolves caught in steel.
Pulled splinters from his own palm.
Set his own broken finger.
Cut bullets from a hunter’s shoulder once, before he stopped letting hunters come near him.
But touching her seemed harder.
He met her eyes.
“You’re the first woman I’ve touched in twenty-three years.”
The words came out like a warning rather than a confession. Pasted markdown
Her expression softened.
Not with pity.
He would have hated pity.
“With worse wounds than this?”
she asked.
Amos frowned.
“What?”
She held his gaze.
“I assume you’ve handled worse injuries.”
“Yes.”
“Then clean it.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“What’s your name?”
“Lavinia.”
“Lavinia what?”
“Beaumont.”
His hand stopped again.
Only for a fraction.
She noticed.
“You know the name?”
“No.”
It was a lie.
She knew it.
But she did not challenge him.
He cleaned the wound.
She hissed once.
Did not pull away.
When he poured iodine, she gripped the chair hard enough to whiten her knuckles.
“This will hurt.”
“You might have said that before pouring.”
“You would still need it.”
“You are insufferable.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“By whom?”
Amos tied the bandage.
“No one living.”
That ended the questions.
For that night.
The storm sealed them in.
By midnight snow had drifted halfway up the window.
The roof groaned.
Lavinia sat near the stove wearing one of Amos’s long wool shirts under the blanket while her own clothes dried from pegs.
He cooked rabbit stew.
She ate without complaint.
Afterward she asked:
“Is this how you live all winter?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
“For twenty-three years.”
She looked at him.
“And before that?”
Amos stood.
“Sleep.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is tonight.”
He gave her the bed.
She objected.
He ignored her and spread a bearskin near the stove.
Before lying down, he checked the door bar twice.
Lavinia noticed.
“Expecting someone?”
“Storm.”
“A storm does not turn door handles.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“People do.”
She slept poorly.
At some point before dawn she woke and heard Amos breathing near the stove.
Even asleep, one hand rested close to the rifle.
She wondered what kind of man lived that way by choice.
Then she remembered his reaction to her surname.
He had lied.
She was certain.
In the morning, the blizzard had erased the world.
Amos opened the door three inches.
Snow filled the gap immediately.
He closed it.
“How long?”
Lavinia asked.
“Storm?”
“Yes.”
“Day.”
“Until we can leave?”
“Three.”
She stared.
“Three days?”
“Maybe four.”
“I cannot remain here four days.”
“You can.”
“I have business in Redstone.”
“Then it waits.”
“It cannot.”
Amos poured coffee into a tin cup.
“Mountain disagrees.”
She stood.
His wool shirt reached nearly to her knees.
“Mr. Vale—”
His eyes snapped toward her.
She froze.
“What?”
“Who told you my surname?”
Lavinia frowned.
“You did.”
“No.”