“Not like that.”
“I know.”
“Sit opposite ends.”
They did, boots between.
Storm howled.
The woman wrapped blanket.
Mountain man made coffee.
She watched his hands.
Scarred.
Careful.
He handed cup.
“No sugar.”
“How know?”
“You never used at stable.”
Eleven years ago.
He remembered.
She looked.
“Why did you leave that winter?”
The mountain man stared into fire.
“Your brother accused me of stealing.”
Her face changed.
“What?”
“A silver bridle buckle.”
“I remember.”
There had been scandal.
A hand fired suddenly.
Her father angry.
She never knew who.
“You?”
“No.”
“Did Father believe?”
“No.”
“Then why leave?”
“Your brother did not want me there.”
“Why?”
The mountain man’s eyes lifted.
“Because your father liked me.”
She waited.
“And because you did.”
Her breath caught.
“What?”
“You were eighteen.”
“So?”
“You brought me coffee.”
“I brought everyone coffee.”
“You gave me extra biscuit.”
“I gave everyone—”
“No.”
She stopped.
He smiled faintly.
“I was twenty-seven.”
“You were a girl.”
“I knew better than encourage.”
Her face warmed.
“Did my brother think—”
“Yes.”
She became angry.
“He sent you away because he thought you liked me?”
“Partly.”
“What other part?”
“I found him taking stable cash.”
She stared.
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
The room seemed smaller.
“How much?”
“Not much then.”
“He said borrowing.”
“I told your father.”
“What happened?”
“Your father confronted.”
“Your brother blamed me for turning family against.”
“Then buckle disappeared.”
“Found in my bedroll.”
The woman closed eyes.
“Planted.”
“I believed.”
“Father?”
“He believed too.”
“Why didn’t he keep you?”
“I chose go.”
The stable woman thought of eleven years.
A pattern older than father’s death.
Her brother had been taking.
Manipulating.
Protecting ownership.
Not desperation after inheritance.
Character.
That hurt.
“Why did Father still leave deed with you?”
“Years later we met in Denver.”
“He apologized.”
“He knew your brother had lied.”
“He was already worried.”
The stable woman looked at fire.