The answer frightened her more than agreement would have.
She stiffened.
The mountain man noticed.
“I mean you don’t need to.”
He corrected himself.
“Not that you can’t.”
She stared.
He tried again.
“There’s stew.”
“It’s already made.”
“You’ve traveled three days.”
“Sit.”
He frowned at himself.
“If you want.”
The widow almost laughed.
He looked enormous enough to frighten wolves and somehow incapable of issuing a simple invitation without turning it into a negotiation.
“Thank you.”
she said.
He nodded.
Then retreated toward the kitchen as though relieved.
That first supper was painfully quiet.
Venison stew.
Potatoes.
Bread.
The widow ate carefully.
Her aunt’s voice existed in the back of her mind.
Not too quickly.
Not too much.
A woman should not appear hungry in front of a husband.
Especially a large woman.
Men notice.
The widow broke one piece of bread into increasingly smaller pieces.
The mountain man watched.
She noticed.
Her stomach tightened.
There it was.
Finally.
Judgment.
He set down his spoon.
“You don’t have to do that.”
She froze.
“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re not hungry.”
Heat rose into her face.
“I’m not pretending.”
He looked toward the bread.
“You’ve torn the same piece apart for five minutes.”
“I eat slowly.”
“Okay.”
He returned to his stew.
That should have ended it.
Instead, shame made her defensive.
“You think I eat too much.”
He stopped.
“No.”
“You were watching.”
“I was.”
“Why?”
He thought.
“Because you looked scared of your supper.”
She stared.
No one had ever described it that way.
He continued carefully.
“Your aunt wrote something.”
The widow’s hand tightened around the spoon.
“What?”
He clearly regretted beginning.
“Nothing useful.”
“What did she write?”
He looked toward the fire.
The widow repeated:
“What did she write?”
He sighed.
“That you required… management.”
Her cheeks burned.
He continued reluctantly.
“She said your appetite had contributed to your husband’s financial difficulties.”
The widow stopped breathing.
Of all the cruelty her aunt had practiced, that lie was almost impressive.
Her first husband had gambled.
Speculated.
Borrowed.
Bought expensive liquor.
Invested in businesses he did not understand.
Signed notes against property he did not fully own.
His debts had swallowed everything.
But somewhere, apparently, the widow’s meals had become the explanation.
She pushed her bowl away.
The mountain man looked alarmed.
“No.”
“What?”
“That’s not why I told you.”
She stood.
The chair moved heavily across the floor.
She hated the sound.
He immediately rose too.
Then realized his size might feel threatening and stepped backward.
The widow stared at him.