Firewood had been stacked according to size.
A copper kettle hung near the hearth.
The floor had been swept.
Two chairs sat beside the fire, one visibly newer and larger than the other.
The widow noticed that immediately.
She stared at it.
The mountain man carried her trunk toward the bedroom alcove.
She followed.
The bed was wide.
Wider than she expected.
Fresh quilts.
Two large pillows.
A small table beside it with a basin, clean towels, and a ceramic pitcher.
The widow touched the bed frame.
New wood.
“You built this.”
The mountain man stood at the doorway.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
She looked toward him.
“Why?”
He seemed confused by the question.
“The old one was narrow.”
Her throat tightened.
He continued:
“I didn’t know what you’d be comfortable with.”
“So I made it wider.”
No smile.
No hidden mockery.
Just information.
She looked toward the new chair near the hearth.
“And the chair?”
His eyes followed hers.
“The others are uncomfortable.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
She stared.
He shifted slightly.
“If you don’t like it, I can change it.”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
She softened it.
“No.”
“It’s lovely.”
He nodded.
That was all.
No demand for gratitude.
No speech about effort.
The widow removed her gloves slowly.
She had not known what kindness without performance looked like.
It made her suspicious.
He pointed toward a canvas partition.
“You can change there.”
“Your clothes are in the chest.”
She frowned.
“My clothes?”
“Some.”
He looked embarrassed.
“I asked the seamstress in town.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You bought clothes for me?”
“A few things.”
“How did you know my measurements?”
His cheeks reddened beneath his beard.
“I didn’t.”
She almost smiled.
“That seems important.”
“I gave her the measurements from the dressmaker’s note your aunt sent.”
The smile disappeared.
Her aunt had sent measurements?
Of course she had.
Probably accompanied by some humiliating warning about how much fabric would be required.
The mountain man saw the change in her face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He paused.
Then:
“If something is wrong, tell me.”
The widow looked up.
“Why?”
His brow furrowed.
“So I can know.”
It sounded so simple.
Her first husband had considered unhappiness something to defeat.
If she complained, he argued.
If she cried, he accused her of manipulation.
If she objected, he explained why she was unreasonable.
This man seemed to believe information was simply information.
She did not trust that yet.
“I’m tired.”
she said.
“Then rest.”
“I should help with supper.”
“No.”