She stared toward the wooden ceiling.
Then she remembered her mother's letter.
Never let the world convince her that her joy is something to apologize for.
The young woman closed her eyes.
For once, she allowed herself to imagine a future that belonged entirely to her.
A small house.
A garden.
Books.
A warm kitchen.
Perhaps work she enjoyed.
Perhaps a husband who looked at her with tenderness rather than disappointment.
Perhaps children someday.
Or perhaps no husband at all.
The important thing was that the choice could be hers.
That thought stayed with her until she fell asleep.
And outside the curtain, the mountain man sat beside the dying fire, staring toward the door.
He had promised her freedom.
Now he had to make sure her father couldn't find another way to take it away.
By morning, the storm had buried the path to the cabin beneath nearly two feet of snow.
The young woman woke to the sound of an axe striking wood.
She sat up beneath the heavy quilt and listened.
Another strike.
Then another.
She pulled on her brown skirt, fastened a simple blouse over her chemise, and stepped into the main room.
The fire was burning.
A pot of coffee rested near the hearth.
Beside it sat a plate containing two pieces of bread, preserved peaches, and a small portion of smoked meat.
A folded note lay near the plate.
Breakfast is yours. I'm outside chopping wood. Eat as much as you please.
She stared at the final sentence.
As much as you please.
It was such an ordinary kindness that she almost laughed.
At her father's house, meals had been an endless source of criticism.
If she took another piece of bread, he complained that she was greedy.
If she declined food, he accused her of being dramatic.
If she ate slowly, he demanded that she stop wasting time.
Here, someone had prepared breakfast and told her she could eat without asking.
She sat at the table.
The bread was slightly uneven.
The peaches tasted sweet.
And the coffee was stronger than anything she would have made herself.
She ate until she was satisfied.
Then she washed the dishes.
When the mountain man returned, snow covered his shoulders and beard.
He stopped in the doorway.
"Morning."
She turned.
"Morning."
He looked toward the clean dishes.
"You didn't have to do that."
She smiled.
"I know."
He removed his gloves.
"Sleep well?"
"Better than I expected."
He nodded.
"Good."
She glanced toward the snow outside.
"How long are we trapped?"
He looked through the window.
"Another day at least. Maybe two."
She considered that.
Then smiled mischievously.
"I suppose you'll have to endure my company."