He nodded.
"Exactly twenty."
She pressed a hand over her mouth.
The mountain man smiled faintly.
"Your mother told me I didn't owe her anything."
He looked toward the fire.
"She said the only payment she wanted was for me to help somebody else when I could."
The young woman began crying.
The mountain man turned toward her.
"Sweetheart..."
She reached for him.
He held her gently.
For several minutes, she couldn't speak.
Then she whispered, "You paid the same amount."
He nodded.
"It seemed fitting."
She looked up.
"So you weren't buying me."
"No."
"You were keeping a promise."
He brushed a tear from her cheek.
"I was trying."
She smiled through her tears.
Then kissed him.
It was slow and tender, filled with everything she'd struggled to say.
When they parted, she rested her forehead against his.
"My mother would've loved you."
He smiled sadly.
"I hope so."
She touched his cheek.
"I know so."
And as the fire burned beside them, the young woman understood that the most valuable thing her mother had left her wasn't only the land.
It was the belief that kindness could travel through time and return when it was needed most.
Spring arrived slowly in the northern Wyoming mountains.
The snow retreated first from the lower valleys, revealing muddy roads and patches of grass beneath the trees.
Streams began moving again.
Birds returned.
And the mountain man discovered that his once-quiet cabin had become filled with the sound of laughter.
The young woman still occupied the sleeping alcove.
He continued sleeping in the main room.
They had spoken about changing that arrangement, usually with blushing smiles and teasing remarks, but neither wanted to rush a decision that had begun under such unusual circumstances.
Their affection had grown through ordinary days.
Shared meals.
Long walks.
Difficult conversations.
Moments when one of them felt discouraged and the other knew when to offer comfort.
The mountain man loved watching her read.
She loved the way he became embarrassed whenever she complimented him.
He learned that she hated the sound of thunder but adored spring rain.
She discovered that he could repair almost anything except a torn shirt without making the stitching look dreadful.
He taught her how to guide a horse across difficult ground.
She taught him how to prepare bread that wouldn't require a hammer to break.
Their days weren't always easy.
They argued occasionally.
Once, he returned late from checking the northern pass without telling her where he planned to go.
She became frightened.
When he finally arrived, she confronted him.
He initially thought she was being unreasonable.
Then he realized that years of uncertainty and abandonment had taught her to fear unexplained absences.