He did not appear to notice.
That almost made her cry again.
The first week passed quietly.
The storm trapped them on the mountain.
The bride learned the cabin.
The stove smoked if the lower vent was closed too far.
The well pump froze each morning.
The chickens hated everyone equally.
One goat—apparently acquired from a trader who owed the mountain man money—hated him specifically.
The bride discovered this when the animal rammed him behind the knees.
She laughed so hard she had to sit down.
The mountain man glared at the goat.
“She’s evil.”
“She has excellent judgment.”
“You’ve known me six days.”
“Long enough.”
The goat became hers by noon.
The mountain man claimed he had never wanted it anyway.
She did not believe him.
He slept on the bench for three nights.
On the fourth, she found him building something in the far corner.
“What is that?”
“Bed.”
“For whom?”
“Me.”
She looked at the rough wooden frame.
“You’re building another bed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the bench is trying to kill me.”
She laughed.
Then noticed the frame was positioned behind a new partition he had begun constructing from planks.
Two sleeping spaces.
Real privacy.
Something inside her shifted.
“You planned this?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
He looked toward her.
“Because you looked scared every time you woke and saw me.”
She went still.
“I thought walls might help.”
She did not know what to say.
So she helped him build them.
By the end of the week, the cabin had two small rooms separated by a plank partition and a proper door made from leftover barn wood.
The mountain man installed a simple latch on her side.
She stared at it.
He said:
“You can lock it.”
“From you?”
“Yes.”
“You put a lock on your own bedroom door so your wife can lock you out?”
He looked around.
“Technically your bedroom door.”
She laughed.
He smiled.
Something warmed.
Not fire.
Something much more dangerous.
Trust.
Winter deepened.
She discovered the mountain man could read.
Not merely signs or ledgers.
Books.
There were twelve hidden in a wooden crate beneath his bed.
Shakespeare.
A battered collection of poetry.
Two histories.
A medical guide.
Three novels.
She held one up.
“You read romances?”
He nearly dropped the knife he was sharpening.
“That is not mine.”
She opened the cover.
His name was written inside.
He glared.
“The trader made me buy a box.”
“Of romance novels?”
“There were tools included.”