That afternoon, he told her he needed to ride to the nearest settlement.
There were messages to collect.
Supplies to purchase.
And questions to ask about the legal proceedings involving her property.
She immediately became anxious.
"How long will you be gone?"
"One night. Possibly two."
She stared.
"Alone?"
He nodded.
"The weather's clear enough."
She looked toward the cabin.
"What should I do?"
He studied her face.
Then spoke gently.
"Whatever you like."
She laughed nervously.
"That's a very broad answer."
He smiled.
"You're not a prisoner."
She nodded.
"I know."
But as he prepared to leave, her fear returned.
Not because she believed he would abandon her.
Because she had spent her entire life knowing that if something happened to the person controlling her circumstances, she would have no way to survive independently.
She followed him to the porch.
He mounted his enormous dark horse.
Then looked down.
"There's enough food."
She nodded.
"Firewood is stacked beside the rear door."
"Yes."
"If you need anything, the nearest neighbor is two miles south."
She looked toward the snow-covered trail.
"All right."
He hesitated.
Then added, "I left the documents in the chest."
She looked up.
"Why?"
"Because they're yours."
Her breath caught.
He continued.
"The key is on the table. You can read them whenever you want."
She stared.
"You trust me with them?"
He smiled slightly.
"They belong to you."
Then he turned his horse toward the trail.
She watched him go.
For the first time, he left her alone with the freedom to decide what she wanted.
And that freedom felt terrifying.
The first afternoon passed peacefully.
She cleaned the kitchen.
Repaired a torn blanket.
Read another book.
Then walked carefully around the cabin, examining the property.
There was a barn.
A small storage shed.
A vegetable garden buried beneath snow.
A fenced corral.
And a narrow path leading toward the creek.
She wondered what the place would look like in summer.
She wondered whether flowers could grow near the porch.
She wondered whether the kitchen could be expanded.
Then she stopped.
Why was she imagining improvements to a home that wasn't hers?
She looked toward the mountains.
And realized she had already begun thinking about a future there.
That night, the wind returned.
Not a full storm.
Just enough to shake the roof and make the trees creak.
She kept the fire burning.
Prepared supper.
Then sat near the window with a book.
Sometime after midnight, a sound woke her.
Hoofbeats.
She sat upright.