Every unfamiliar sound made her eyes open.
Yet the strangest thing was the man six paces away.
He never approached.
Never tested whether she was asleep.
Never touched the bed.
By midnight, Maeve began to wonder whether he regretted bringing her.
By morning, she woke to the smell of coffee.
Callaway was already outside.
That became the pattern.
Days settled into work.
Maeve discovered quickly that the ranch did not need decorative femininity. It needed hands.
She cooked because Callaway could burn beans in three different ways.
She mended shirts because his idea of repair involved tying fabric together.
She learned which chickens would peck her ankles and which horse hated men in red shirts.
Callaway taught her to fire a rifle.
She taught him that coffee did not improve merely because one boiled it longer.
He showed her where the creek froze first.
She showed him how to make soda bread without turning it into something suitable for paving roads.
The first time she rode alone, she nearly fell mounting.
Callaway caught her by the waist.
For one second his hands held her securely.
Maeve froze.
So did he.
His fingers spread instinctively against her sides.
Their faces were close.
Callaway released her as though burned.
“You all right?”
Maeve stared.
“Yes.”
He stepped backward.
“Good.”
Then he walked away.
Maeve watched him go with growing irritation.
It became impossible not to notice.
Callaway was kind to her.
Protective.
Attentive in a quiet way that made grand gestures unnecessary.
But whenever the space between them became too small, something changed.
He retreated.
Not with disgust.
Maeve knew disgust.
She had seen it disguised as concern, humor, politeness, advice.
That was not what lived in Callaway’s face.
Sometimes she caught him looking at her when she kneaded bread, when she braided her hair, when she bent over the garden boxes beside the cabin.
His eyes would linger for one heartbeat too long.
Then he would look away.
Once, Maeve wore a green dress she had kept folded since Ireland.
It fit closely through her waist and fuller hips.
When she came from behind the curtain that served as a dressing corner, Callaway was standing near the table.
He looked at her.
Stopped breathing.
Then picked up an empty plate and walked outside with it.
Maeve stared after him.
“That plate was already clean!”
From outside came his voice.
“I know.”
She smiled despite herself.
The mystery might have been amusing if it had not begun to hurt.
Weeks became a month.
The weather worsened.
Snow appeared on the high ridges.
Callaway gave her the bed every night.
Every night he folded himself onto the cot.
Maeve started resenting the thing.
“You’ll ruin your back.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“You own a bed.”
“You’re using it.”
“I can move.”
“No.”
“Callaway.”
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Do you intend to spend the rest of your life folded like a pocketknife beside that fireplace?”
He glanced at the cot.
“Wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Then take the bed.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His expression closed.
“Because it’s yours.”
It was the same answer, over and over.
Eventually Maeve stopped asking.
But she did not stop wondering.
The ranch changed with winter.
Isolation sharpened everything.
A simple argument could fill a whole evening.