I have one thing belonging to your mother that I should have given you years ago. I cannot bear to leave this world without returning it.
The mountain man stopped.
"What thing?"
She shook her head.
"He doesn't say."
He looked at the final lines.
If you will see me once, I will tell you everything. If you cannot, I will understand.
The mountain man placed the letter on the table.
He remained quiet.
His wife watched him.
"You're angry."
"Yes."
"At him?"
"Yes."
She lowered her eyes.
He reached for her hand.
"But that isn't the question."
She looked up.
"What is?"
He spoke gently.
"What do you want?"
The words struck her with the same force they had six years earlier.
What do you want?
On the first night, she had not known how to answer.
She had spent twenty-eight years believing her desires were inconveniences.
Her body was an embarrassment.
Her future was negotiable.
Her obedience was expected.
And her worth was something other people could calculate in money, livestock, or marriage prospects.
Then a frightening mountain man had cut the laces of her corset and asked what she wanted.
He was still asking.
She looked toward the letter.
"I don't know."
He nodded.
"Then you don't have to decide tonight."
She studied him.
"Would you go with me?"
His answer came immediately.
"Anywhere."
Her eyes filled.
He squeezed her hand.
"But I won't tell you whether you ought to go."
She leaned against his shoulder.
"Even if I decide to see him?"
"Even then."
She closed her eyes.
"And if I decide never to see him again?"
"Then I'll help you put the letter away."
For several minutes, they sat together beside the fire.
The stew simmered.
Snow gathered at the window.
Beyond the kitchen, their employees were finishing supper in the larger dining room of the mountain lodge.
The business had grown steadily over the years.
Travelers came from mining settlements, timber camps, and ranches scattered across the high valleys.
Some arrived exhausted.
Some hungry.
Some with barely enough money for a meal.
The woman had established a simple rule.
Anyone who entered would be treated respectfully.
If someone could not afford supper, there was always work that could be offered voluntarily, or a meal provided without humiliation when work was not possible.
Her husband had never questioned the policy.
He knew why it mattered.
She had arrived at his cabin believing she was something purchased.
He wanted their home to remain a place where nobody else felt that way.
That night, when the last guests retired and the lamps were lowered, the woman remained awake.