A shared joke could warm a room longer than the fire.
When snow blocked the road, Maeve and Callaway became each other’s entire world.
She learned his silences.
There was the silence that meant he was thinking.
The silence that meant he was angry.
The silence that meant he was tired.
And one she slowly came to recognize whenever she asked about his past.
That silence meant danger.
Callaway rarely spoke of his family.
His mother had died when he was young.
His father had been dead for nine years.
There were no brothers.
No sisters.
No former wife.
At least none he admitted to.
Maeve once asked whether he had ever loved anyone.
Callaway was repairing a saddle.
His hands stopped.
“Once.”
Maeve felt an unexpected sting.
“What happened?”
“She married someone else.”
“Did she break your heart?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Callaway threaded the leather carefully.
“I never told her.”
Maeve blinked.
“That may have contributed to the outcome.”
He looked at her.
“You think?”
“I’m beginning to understand why you require assistance.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Maeve sat across from him.
“What was she like?”
“Kind.”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes.”
Maeve wished she had not asked.
“Did she know?”
“No.”
“Does she now?”
“No.”
“Is she still married?”
Callaway looked toward the window.
“She died.”
Maeve’s jealousy vanished immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“Long time ago.”
He returned to the saddle.
Maeve watched his face.
For some reason, she felt there was more to the answer.
She did not press.
Then came the day a stranger arrived.
His name was Silas Mercer.
Maeve disliked him before he dismounted.
Some men carried arrogance the way others carried a gun: openly and with the expectation that people would move aside.
Silas was perhaps fifty, silver-haired, clean-shaven, and dressed too well for a man traveling muddy mountain roads.
He rode with two hired men.
Callaway was splitting wood behind the cabin when Maeve saw them approach.
His entire posture changed.
The axe stopped mid-swing.
“Inside,” he said.
Maeve frowned.
“Who is that?”
“Inside, Maeve.”
She did not move.
Callaway turned.
She had never heard that tone from him before.
Not cruel.
Afraid.
That frightened her more.
Maeve entered the cabin but remained near the door.
Silas dismounted.
“Callaway.”
“Mercer.”
Silas looked toward the cabin.
His gaze settled on Maeve through the open doorway.
Something flashed in his eyes.
Recognition.
Maeve was certain of it.
“Well,” Silas said softly. “So the Irishwoman made it.”
Callaway stepped between him and the door.
“You can leave.”
Silas smiled.
“That isn’t very neighborly.”
“We’re not neighbors.”