Now a man she'd met only hours earlier was telling her something nobody had ever allowed her to believe.
She swallowed.
"Do you mean that?"
The mountain man looked almost offended by the question.
"Every word."
She gave a small smile.
Then she reached toward his hand.
He let her take it.
His palm was rough.
Scarred from years of work.
But his grip was gentle.
She looked down at their joined hands.
Then whispered, "You have no idea what you've done for me today."
He smiled faintly.
"Bought you supper, mostly."
She laughed.
Then shook her head.
"No."
She looked up.
"You reminded me I'm still a person."
His smile faded.
For several seconds, he simply held her hand.
Then he answered quietly.
"You always were."
That night, the mountain man gave her the sleeping alcove.
He brought fresh blankets, a clean pillow, and a heavy quilt that smelled faintly of cedar.
She watched him prepare the bed.
"Where will you sleep?"
He gestured toward the chair beside the fireplace.
"Out there."
She frowned.
"That chair looks uncomfortable."
"It's better than sleeping under a wagon."
She smiled.
Then hesitated.
"There's enough room in here."
The mountain man stopped moving.
He looked toward her.
She felt her cheeks grow hot.
"I only mean—"
"I know what you mean."
His voice was gentle.
He stepped toward the curtain.
"But tonight, I think you deserve a room where you can close the door and know nobody will bother you."
Her expression softened.
He continued.
"You've had enough people making decisions about your body and your life."
She looked down.
For a moment, she wanted to argue.
She wanted to tell him she'd never felt safer beside anyone.
She wanted to ask him to stay.
But a deeper part of her recognized the kindness in what he was offering.
Space.
Privacy.
The right to decide tomorrow what she couldn't yet understand tonight.
She nodded.
"Thank you."
He smiled.
"Sleep well, sweetheart."
Then he closed the curtain.
She lay beneath the quilt listening to the storm.
For a long time, sleep wouldn't come.
Her mind returned to the trading post.
The laughter.
The silver coins.
Her father's cold expression.
Then she remembered the mountain man's hands cutting the corset laces.
The kiss.
The letters.
The way he told her she was beautiful.
She touched her lips.
A smile appeared.
But beneath the happiness, uncertainty remained.
What happened when the snow melted?
What if she chose to stay?
Would the mountain man eventually expect her to become his wife because he'd paid twenty dollars?
He said he wouldn't.
She wanted to believe him.
Yet trust was unfamiliar territory.