"Sweetheart, I need to tell you something."
Her stomach tightened.
"What?"
"I've been alone a long time."
She waited.
"I got used to it."
He looked toward the mountains.
"Thought I'd always live that way."
She listened.
Then he turned back.
"And now I find myself looking forward to supper because you'll be sitting across from me."
Her expression changed.
He continued.
"I find myself listening for your footsteps. Thinking about the sound of your laugh."
He smiled ruefully.
"And worrying that when spring comes, you'll discover a hundred places you'd rather be."
Tears filled her eyes.
She reached for his face.
He leaned into her touch.
"Perhaps," she whispered, "there's only one place I want to be."
He looked at her.
"Don't decide that because you're afraid of being alone."
She shook her head.
"I'm not."
"Or because you think you owe me."
"I don't."
She leaned closer.
"I'm deciding because I like the man who keeps asking whether I'm sure."
The mountain man smiled.
Then he kissed her.
The snow-covered mountains stretched around them.
The horses stood quietly beside the road.
For a moment, the land documents, her father's anger, and the uncertainty of tomorrow seemed distant.
But when they reached the cabin, someone had been there.
The workshop door stood slightly open.
Footprints marked the snow.
And the small wooden box containing her mother's letters was gone.
For several seconds, neither moved.
The mountain man examined the broken latch.
Then the footprints.
Someone had forced the workshop door while they were in town.
The intruder had searched the shelves, opened two storage chests, and scattered several papers across the workbench.
But little else was missing.
The tools remained.
The rifles were untouched.
A small pouch of coins still sat inside a drawer.
Only the wooden box was gone.
The young woman stood in the doorway.
Her face had gone white.
"My mother's letters."
The mountain man nodded grimly.
"Yes."
She stepped forward.
He caught her hand gently.
"Mind the broken wood."
She barely heard him.
"Why would someone take those?"
He looked toward the footprints.
"Because they knew you wanted them."
Her breath caught.
She looked at the torn latch.
Then toward the snowy trees.
"Father."
The mountain man didn't answer immediately.
He crouched and examined the boot marks.
They were large, with a distinctive worn edge along one heel.
Another set of tracks led toward the stable.
The intruder had arrived on horseback.
The mountain man stood.
"Whoever did this wanted the letters, not my property."
The young woman pressed a hand against her mouth.
For years, she'd lived with only a few memories of her mother.
A song.
The smell of bread.