The woman gasped.
The mountain cowboy caught the bridle immediately.
“Lean uphill.”
She did.
The horse recovered.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
No laughter.
No comment about weight upsetting the animal.
She had expected one.
The absence stayed with her.
Black Ridge Ranch sat beneath a granite wall where pine forest broke into wide meadow.
Large main cabin.
Barn.
Smokehouse.
Workshop.
Three corrals.
More substantial than she expected.
Inside, however, looked as though a man had been surviving rather than living.
Clean.
Sparse.
Gray.
The mountain cowboy carried her trunk toward a smaller room near the back.
She followed.
The room contained a bed.
Washstand.
Chest.
Window.
And a wooden bolt on the inside of the door.
She touched it.
He stood in the hallway.
“Told you.”
“So you did.”
“Kitchen whenever you're ready.”
He left.
Did not linger.
That evening she cooked beef stew.
The pantry surprised her.
Flour.
Beans.
Rice.
Salt pork.
Coffee.
Dried fruit.
Preserved vegetables.
Enough supplies for a small army.
The mountain cowboy entered as she was cutting bread.
He stopped.
She glanced over.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You stopped moving.”
“Smells good.”
“When did someone last cook in this kitchen?”
His expression changed.
“A while.”
“How long?”
“Eight years.”
She stopped.
“Eight?”
“Yes.”
“What have you eaten?”
“Food.”
“That answer explains nothing.”
“Meat.”
“Beans.”
“Coffee.”
“Occasional bread.”
She stared.
“You've been living like a criminal hiding from vegetables.”
His eyes narrowed.
Then he laughed.
Barely.
Still a laugh.
She smiled.
Progress.
He ate two bowls.
Then reached for the third.
Stopped.
Looked at her.
“Enough for you?”
The question surprised her.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He took the third.
She watched.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“I'm trying to understand how one human body contains that much stew.”
He looked at her.
“Work.”
She smiled.
“That simple?”
“Usually.”
They developed routine faster than either expected.