Whenever she asked whether she might find independent work, he reminded her that respectable employers would not want a woman of her size.
Whenever she spoke about marrying for affection rather than necessity, he laughed.
And now this stranger was suggesting her father had concealed an inheritance large enough to change her life.
She looked at the mountain man.
"Why didn't my uncle come for me?"
The question seemed to hurt him.
"He tried."
"When?"
"Three years ago."
She stared.
"What happened?"
"He wrote letters."
Her eyes widened.
"I never received them."
"I know."
"How?"
The mountain man reached into the chest again.
He removed a small bundle tied with faded blue ribbon.
Then placed it before her.
The woman stared.
The envelopes were addressed to her.
Her name.
Her father's address.
Her handwriting was not on any of them.
But each envelope bore the same return address.
A small trading settlement in Colorado Territory.
She touched the first one.
It had been opened.
Then resealed.
A note across the back read:
Recipient unavailable.
The second carried another notation.
Address refused.
The third was torn.
The mountain man watched her.
"Your father sent them back."
She opened the first letter.
The paper was yellowed.
The writing uneven.
Her eyes moved slowly across the lines.
The author introduced himself as her mother's younger brother.
He wrote that he had searched for her after learning where her father had taken her.
He explained that her mother had left property in trust.
He said he wanted her to know the truth before the remaining legal protections expired.
Then came a sentence that made her cover her mouth.
Your mother loved you more than anything in this world, and she never considered you a burden.
The woman began crying.
The mountain man remained silent.
She read further.
If your father has told you otherwise, do not believe him.
Tears fell onto the paper.
She wiped them away quickly, afraid of damaging the ink.
The letter continued.
You are not responsible for the bitterness of the people who raised you.
She stopped reading.
For a long time, she could only sit beside the fire with the letter in her hands.
The mountain man finally spoke.
"You don't have to read it all tonight."
She shook her head.
"I want to."
He nodded.
Then stood.
"I'll make more tea."
As he moved toward the stove, she looked at his enormous figure.
The fur coat.
The scarred hands.
The knife still resting beside the table.
He looked like a man who belonged to a world of snow, danger, and violence.