The woman felt a chill.
Outside, the storm howled.
The mountain man looked toward the snow-covered window.
"Men have already been asking questions."
"What men?"
"Land agents. Prospectors. People pretending to be surveyors."
He paused.
"Some aren't honest."
She looked at the rifle leaning beside the fireplace.
"Is that why you live alone?"
The mountain man considered.
"Partly."
She waited.
He looked toward the fire.
"And partly because I lost someone."
The woman lowered her eyes.
"The stories said you had a wife."
He nodded.
"I did."
Her chest tightened.
"They said she died."
"Yes."
She hesitated.
"Did she die here?"
He looked up.
"No."
The answer was quiet.
"She died in the settlement below the mountain."
The woman studied him.
"How?"
His jaw tightened.
"Illness."
He looked toward the window.
"She was twenty-six."
The young woman swallowed.
"I'm sorry."
He nodded.
"Thank you."
For a while, neither spoke.
Then he stood and added more wood to the fireplace.
The woman pulled the buffalo robe tighter around herself.
She was still frightened.
But the fear had begun changing shape.
Earlier, she feared the mountain man.
Now she feared what waited beyond his cabin.
Her father's lies.
The missing inheritance.
The men interested in the land.
And the possibility that the journey she believed ended in forced marriage was only the beginning of something far larger.
Eventually, she asked the question that had troubled her from the moment she arrived.
"If you didn't buy me, why did my father say you did?"
The mountain man stared at the fire.
Then answered slowly.
"Because he wanted you to believe you had no choice."
She felt tears rising again.
He turned toward her.
"And because he wanted everyone else to believe you were no longer his responsibility."
She shook her head.
"But if the land belongs to me, wouldn't he want me to stay?"
The man's eyes narrowed.
"Not if your presence was about to make it harder for him to control it."
She looked at the document again.
The trust.
Her signature.
Her name.
He continued.
"Your uncle started legal proceedings before he died. Those proceedings created questions about your father's authority."
She listened.
"Your father needed you out of St. Louis."
"Why?"
"To make you difficult to find."
Her stomach tightened.
"And?"
The mountain man's voice became colder.
"Possibly to convince people you had voluntarily abandoned any claim."
She stared.
"But I never agreed."
"I know."
"Then how could he—"
"He may have expected you to sign papers once you believed you were dependent on a husband."