The young woman's hands stopped.
"What?"
He turned toward her.
"I could manage a few words when I met her. Not much more."
She stared.
"She taught you?"
"After I recovered from the storm. Every time I passed through Briar Hollow, she'd lend me books."
He smiled faintly.
"Sometimes she'd make me read aloud until I could stop stumbling over the words."
The young woman looked down at the dough.
Her mother had loved books.
She remembered sitting beside her while she read stories aloud.
She remembered the soft rhythm of her voice.
And now she discovered that those evenings had been part of a much larger life.
Her mother had taught people.
Helped travelers.
Shared books.
The woman she'd been encouraged to remember only as a dutiful wife had once been a person with interests, convictions, and friendships that existed beyond her marriage.
She swallowed.
"Do you have anything she wrote?"
The mountain man became thoughtful.
"Maybe."
He walked toward the workshop.
When he returned, he carried a small wooden box.
He placed it on the table.
"She sent this to me after I built my first cabin."
The young woman opened it carefully.
Inside were several letters tied with faded blue ribbon.
Her breath caught.
She recognized the handwriting.
The elegant loops.
The gentle slant.
The way her mother always made the final letters of words curve upward.
She touched the top envelope.
"May I?"
The mountain man nodded.
"Of course."
She unfolded the letter.
It was dated seventeen years earlier.
Her mother had written about the changing seasons, the condition of the mountain roads, and her concern for travelers caught in early snowstorms.
She mentioned her infant daughter.
The young woman smiled through tears.
Then she read a sentence that made her stop.
My little girl has begun laughing at everything. I pray she grows into a woman who never lets the world convince her that her joy is something to apologize for.
The young woman pressed a hand over her mouth.
Tears filled her eyes.
The mountain man looked away, giving her privacy.
She read the sentence again.
Then whispered, "She wanted me to be happy."
He turned.
"Very much."
She looked toward him.
For years, she'd believed she disappointed everyone.
Her father treated her as an obligation.
Neighbors laughed at her figure.
Suitors ignored her unless they believed she brought something useful.
But her mother had wanted something entirely different.
Joy.
Freedom.
A life in which she didn't apologize for existing.
The young woman folded the letter carefully.
Then held it against her chest.
"Thank you."
The mountain man nodded.
"You're welcome."
She looked toward the remaining letters.
"Could I read these later?"
"Every one."