She wiped her cheeks.
"What do you have?"
"Beans. Venison stew. Some bread that may be better suited for repairing wagon wheels."
She smiled.
"Then I'll make the bread."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You sure?"
"I've been cooking since I was eleven."
"Then I believe you've found your first useful task."
She tilted her head.
"Useful?"
He looked suddenly uncomfortable.
"Didn't mean—"
She laughed.
"I'm teasing you."
He smiled.
"You're getting good at it."
And as the storm settled around the cabin, they prepared their first meal together.
The mountain man's cabin was larger than it appeared from the outside.
A broad stone fireplace dominated one wall.
A heavy wooden table stood near the center.
Shelves held jars of preserved fruit, dried herbs, sewing supplies, tools, and carefully labeled medicinal ingredients.
A small kitchen area occupied the rear corner.
Beyond it, a curtain separated the sleeping alcove from the main room.
There were two additional doors.
One led to a storage room.
The other opened onto a small workshop where the mountain man repaired saddles, harnesses, furniture, and equipment for travelers crossing the nearby pass.
The young woman examined everything with growing curiosity.
She had expected a filthy cabin.
Her father described mountain men as uncivilized creatures who lived among animal skins and barely remembered how to speak.
But this place was orderly.
Not fashionable.
Not luxurious.
Yet every object appeared to have a purpose.
Tools hung from carefully placed hooks.
Firewood was stacked by size.
Blankets were folded neatly.
A large book rested beside a reading chair.
The young woman noticed it while kneading dough.
"You read?"
The mountain man looked up from the stew.
"Occasionally."
She tilted her head.
"What kind of books?"
He gestured toward the chair.
"Have a look."
She wiped her hands and approached.
The book concerned botany and medicinal plants.
Its pages contained carefully drawn illustrations, handwritten notes, and several pressed leaves.
She stared.
"You study plants?"
"Some."
"Why?"
"Because people get hurt up here."
He stirred the pot.
"And a doctor isn't always close."
She turned another page.
There were notes describing the symptoms of common illnesses, methods of keeping wounds clean, and observations about plants used by experienced local practitioners.
Some entries were crossed out.
Others contained corrections.
She looked toward him.
"Did you write these?"
He nodded.
"Most of them."
She returned to the table.
"You don't seem like the man my father described."
The mountain man laughed softly.
"That may be the kindest thing anybody's said to me all winter."
She smiled.
Then she glanced toward the book again.
"Who taught you?"
He hesitated.
Then answered.
"Your mother helped me learn to read properly."