The bride looked toward the fire.
“When I turned sixteen, she told me no man would marry me unless I learned to make myself smaller.”
The mountain man’s expression hardened.
“She was wrong.”
“You married me because you wanted someone in the house.”
“I married you because I wanted you.”
Her eyes lifted.
The room changed.
He realized what he had said.
But did not take it back.
The bride’s pulse quickened.
The mountain man put down the rifle.
“I should explain.”
“Probably.”
“I wanted you.”
He swallowed.
“But I knew wanting you didn’t mean you wanted me.”
She stared.
“I thought if I got you away…”
He looked frustrated with himself.
“That sounds worse aloud.”
“It does.”
“I thought if you had a place that was yours, you could decide without your father or aunt standing over you.”
“And if I decided no?”
“I’d survive.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“I’m not.”
Something tender and frightening opened inside her.
She looked away.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes.”
“How badly?”
He laughed softly.
“That seems dangerous to answer.”
“Answer.”
The mountain man looked directly at her.
“Badly enough that I’m afraid saying it will feel like pressure.”
Her throat tightened.
He continued.
“So I’d rather you know the door opens from your side.”
Neither spoke.
Outside, wind moved through pine branches.
Inside, the fire burned down.
The bride whispered:
“I don’t know yet.”
The mountain man nodded.
“I know.”
He did not look disappointed.
But she saw it anyway.
That somehow made his restraint more meaningful.
Two weeks later, he was injured.
Not heroically.
Not fighting wolves or outlaws.
He fell off the barn roof while clearing snow because the goat startled him from below.
The bride heard the crash.
She ran outside.
The mountain man lay in a snowbank cursing with admirable creativity.
She slid beside him.
“Don’t move.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are lying.”
“Probably.”
His shoulder was badly strained.
Two ribs bruised.
Nothing broken, as far as the medical guide could determine.
She helped him inside.
For three days, he could barely lift his right arm.
The arrangement reversed.
She carried wood.
Fed animals.
Cooked.
Changed the bandage where roof nails had torn his coat and cut his shoulder.
The first time she saw his bare upper back, she froze.
Scars crossed it.
Some old.
Some deep.
Not savage trophies.
Work.
Accidents.
A bear claw mark near the shoulder.
A long line from a logging chain.
She touched none.
He sat on the stool facing away.