Not enough to name.
Enough to feel.
The mountain cowboy began staying in the kitchen after supper.
He read while she sewed.
Sometimes neither spoke for an hour.
Silence with him did not feel empty.
That surprised her.
One evening she caught him looking at her.
Not her face.
Her body.
His eyes immediately returned upward.
There was no smirk.
No disgust.
Something else.
She knew that look too.
Want.
Her needle stopped.
He looked away.
Interesting.
The next several days became uncomfortable.
Not because he changed.
Because she had.
She noticed his hands.
His shoulders.
The way his shirt stretched when he lifted wood.
The line of his beard.
The scar beside his mouth.
She became irritated with herself.
He was her employer.
A frightening mountain hermit.
Possibly murderer.
Definitely bad accountant.
This was not sensible.
Then the storm came.
A mare disappeared from the lower pasture.
The mountain cowboy went after her before noon.
Snow began unexpectedly.
By four, visibility disappeared.
The woman stood at the window.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
No horse.
She lit another lamp.
At eight she put on boots.
Then stopped.
Going alone would create two emergencies.
She hated logic.
At nine, something struck the door.
She opened it.
The mountain cowboy fell inside.
Blood darkened his shirt.
“God.”
“Horse found.”
“That is your concern?”
“She’s in barn.”
He attempted standing.
Failed.
The woman dragged him toward the fire.
He was heavy.
Incredibly.
She managed.
“Shirt.”
“What?”
“Off.”
He looked at her.
“This is a terrible time for modesty.”
He removed it.
That was the first time she saw the tattoos.
The cowboy on horseback on his left chest.
The woman’s portrait on his right.
She noticed but had no time to examine either.
A branch had cut his side.
Not deep enough to kill.
Deep enough to frighten.
She cleaned it.
Bandaged.
Made willow tea.
He watched her.
“You're shaking.”
“You're bleeding on my floor.”
“Your floor?”
“I've cleaned it more than you.”
“Fair.”
She pressed the bandage.
He winced.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“That proves you're alive.”
He almost laughed.
Then his eyes closed.
She stayed beside him all night.
At some point she fell asleep sitting against the bed.
She woke to his hand beneath her head so her neck would not bend against the wooden frame.
“You're awake.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Enough.”
“Why didn't you move?”
“You were sleeping.”