But near the northern fence, the rancher found wire cut cleanly.

Someone had opened a gap and then repaired it loosely.

Testing access.

The wife listened when he explained.

“Tell the sheriff.”

“Helena's too far.”

“Then tell somebody.”

“I can handle it.”

She sighed.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The frontier man's favorite sentence before disaster.”

He almost smiled.

She did not.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You have a threatening note, a cut fence, and a man who wants your property.”

“I know.”

“And your solution is?”

“Watch.”

“For what?”

“More.”

She stared.

“That may be the second-least romantic sentence you've said.”

“What was first?”

“My hands are tools.”

“Still true.”

She rolled her eyes.

But that evening the rancher loaded the shotgun and placed it beside his cot.

His wife noticed.

Neither mentioned it.

Chapter Six — A Marriage of Small Things

The storm had not yet come.

Before terror, there were ordinary days.

Those were the days that changed them.

The rancher began returning earlier.

He told himself daylight had shortened.

His wife knew better.

She never said so.

She started leaving coffee near the door before sunrise.

He pretended not to notice that she warmed his gloves beside the stove.

One afternoon he returned with a split lip.

She looked at him.

“Neighbor?”

“Horse.”

“Your horse punched you?”

“Branch.”

“So the tree attacked.”

“Yes.”

“Sit.”

He obeyed.

She cleaned the cut.

Her fingers were surprisingly gentle.

The rancher watched her face from only a few inches away.

Freckles across her nose.

A small scar beneath her chin.

Gray-blue eyes narrowed in concentration.

“You're staring,” she said.

He looked away.

“Wasn't.”

“You were.”

“Checking whether you knew what you were doing.”

She dabbed the cut harder.

He winced.

“I do.”

“I noticed.”

Another evening her chair caught on a warped floorboard.

The rancher heard the crack.

He turned in time to see her struggling for balance.

He caught the side of the chair.

Her hand landed on his shoulder.

For several seconds they remained that way.

Close.

Too close.

Her face changed.

So did his.

Then the rancher cleared his throat.

“Floor needs fixing.”

“Yes.”

He repaired it that night.

The next morning she found three additional planks reinforced.

“You didn't sleep.”

“Enough.”

“Henry.”

“What?”

“You cannot rebuild the entire world every time it inconveniences me.”

He looked at the hammer in his hand.

“Watch me.”

She laughed.

That laugh became one of his favorite sounds.

He would not admit it.

Not yet.

Chapter Seven — The Blizzard Comes

The barometer fell on a Thursday.

By noon, clouds had erased the western ridge.

The rancher returned from the pasture early.

His wife saw his expression.

“How bad?”

“Could be three days.”