Then at the woman.
"Respectable?"
She nodded miserably.
"She said if I looked smaller, perhaps you wouldn't send me back."
For several seconds, he did not speak.
Then he turned away.
The woman blinked.
"What are you doing?"
"Giving you some privacy."
He placed the knife on a nearby table.
Then pointed toward a thick buffalo robe folded beside the fireplace.
"There's a blanket. Wrap yourself in it."
She looked down.
"I can't remove the corset."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Why not?"
"The knot is behind me."
She swallowed painfully.
"My aunt tied it before we left St. Louis. It's been three days."
The mountain man's face changed completely.
"Three days?"
She nodded.
He crossed the room, stopping a respectful distance behind her.
"May I cut the laces?"
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
He picked up the knife.
"Keep holding your dress. I won't expose you."
His voice was deep, controlled, and unexpectedly gentle.
The woman braced herself.
Cold steel touched the tightly stretched laces at her back.
For one terrifying instant, she held her breath.
Then came a sharp tearing sound.
The first cord snapped.
Another followed.
The crushing pressure began to loosen.
The mountain man cut a final section of lacing.
The corset opened.
And the woman dragged in the deepest breath she had taken since leaving Missouri.
She gasped.
Then gasped again.
Her knees weakened.
The mountain man immediately stepped back, lowered the knife, and reached for the buffalo robe.
He placed it gently around her shoulders.
"Easy."
She stared at him.
"Just breathe."
Her eyes filled with tears.
She pulled the heavy robe around her enormous body.
The warmth felt extraordinary.
For the first time in days, she could fill her lungs without pain.
The mountain man took the ruined corset from the floor.
He examined the rigid whalebone supports.
Then looked toward the fireplace.
With one decisive movement, he threw the garment into the flames.
The woman cried out.
"My corset!"
He watched the fabric catch fire.
"You're not wearing that thing again."
"But my aunt said—"
"Your aunt isn't here."
He turned toward her.
"And I don't care what she thinks a woman ought to look like."
She stared.
The mountain man's expression softened.
"You need your lungs more than you need anyone's approval."
Then he stepped away, giving her room to sit beside the fire.
For nearly an hour, he said very little.
He brought her warm broth.
Placed dry stockings beside her chair.
Added wood to the fireplace.
And quietly moved his rifle away from the doorway so it would not remain within her immediate view.