Slow.
Careful.
When she pulled back, Colum did not chase her.
That mattered.
She smiled.
“You kiss better than you stand.”
He laughed.
“Low standard.”
Winter continued.
Their relationship grew quietly.
No one announced it.
Nobody needed to.
By January, Martha had moved Colum’s cot from the parlor into her bedroom.
Not into her bed.
Not yet.
People noticed and pretended not to.
One evening, after the last neighbor left, Martha stood beside the bed.
Colum watched her.
“You’re thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She sat.
The mattress dipped heavily beneath her.
Martha looked toward him.
“You want to sleep here?”
His expression changed.
“Are you asking because you’re tired of moving the cot?”
“No.”
“Because it’s warmer?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Martha smiled nervously.
“Because I want you close.”
Colum’s gaze darkened.
He transferred carefully onto the mattress.
His legs required Martha’s help.
Neither pretended otherwise.
Once settled, he looked at her.
“Still want close?”
“Yes.”
“How close?”
Martha took his hand and placed it against her waist.
“Start there.”
Colum smiled.
Then kissed her.
Nothing about it was hurried.
Martha had been widowed.
Colum had been nearly murdered.
Both understood how easily bodies could become things other people discussed without permission.
So they asked.
Adjusted.
Waited.
Laughed when awkwardness demanded laughter.
When Martha said slow, Colum slowed.
When Colum’s back spasmed, Martha stopped.
When he became embarrassed, she kissed his forehead and told him to stop behaving like pride was more useful than honesty.
By morning, the distance between them had changed forever.
Not because of what happened in the bed.
Because neither owed the other anything afterward.
January twenty-third brought disaster.
The worst blizzard of the winter arrived before noon.
This one did not merely bury roads.
It erased buildings.
Wind tore roofs from sheds.
Snow came horizontally.
Temperatures plunged.
Willow Plains lost visibility before sunset.
Martha and Colum secured everything they could.
Then pounding came at the door.
Martha opened it.
Amos stood outside.
Half frozen.
Bleeding.
Behind him were six townspeople.
Then more shapes emerged through the whiteout.
A child.
Two women.
An elderly man.
Horses collapsed in the yard.
Martha stared.
“What happened?”
Amos leaned against the doorframe.
“Town hall roof went.”
Colum appeared behind her.
“How many?”
“Twenty-six.”
Martha’s face changed.
“Where?”
“Half mile back. Wagons stuck.”
Colum was already moving.
“Rope.”
Martha looked at him.
“What?”