By the time Marta Lindholm was thirty-four, the people of Red Creek had decided they understood her.
That was the trouble with small towns. They could watch a person for years and still know almost nothing, yet repetition had a way of turning gossip into fact.
Marta was strong, so they called her coarse.
She was unmarried, so they called her difficult.
She knew more about horses than most men who came through her brother’s stable, so they called her unnatural.
And because her body did not fit the narrow shape some women in town considered properly delicate, they called her too much.
Too broad through the shoulders.
Too strong in the arms.
Too full through the hips.
Too noticeable.
Too capable.
Too feminine in the wrong way.
Not dainty enough to inspire protection, yet too beautiful for people to leave alone.
The contradictions never seemed to bother anyone.
Marta had stopped arguing with them years earlier.
Arguments required believing the other person might change.
Work was more useful.
That Monday morning she had already cleaned four stalls, repaired a split halter, mixed mash for a mare recovering from colic, and thrown her brother’s whiskey bottle into the manure pile before Caleb North walked into the Lindholm stable.
He entered through the large south door while dust floated through clean afternoon light.
No one announced him.
He did not need announcing.
Caleb North was one of those men whose size introduced him before his name did.
Six feet four, maybe six five depending on which liar in Red Creek was telling the story. Broad shoulders. Dark beard. Black hat. Heavy brown shearling coat despite the afternoon turning warmer. He moved with the slow economy of somebody accustomed to conserving energy because the mountains punished waste.
Men in town called him the Bear.
Marta privately thought this was unimaginative.
She was beneath the left hind leg of a dark bay gelding when he arrived.
The horse weighed nearly twelve hundred pounds and had the patience of an insulted priest.
“Stop moving,” Marta muttered.
The gelding shifted again.
She tightened her hold.
“It’s a hoof, not an execution.”
The horse snorted.
Marta set the hoof between her knees, trimmed carefully, then adjusted the shoe against the sole.
Caleb stopped several yards away.
He had come to buy three mules.
Nothing more.
Salt, coffee, rifle cartridges, mule team.
That was the whole reason he had ridden down from Black Pine Pass after six weeks alone.
He disliked Red Creek.
Too much mud.
Too much noise.
Too many men with opinions about land they had never slept on in winter.
But the trader at Bennett’s Feed had told him the Lindholm stable had the strongest mountain mules in three counties.
So Caleb came.
Then he saw Marta.
He had heard of her, though not by name.
The stable woman.
Strong one.
The sister nobody married.
Town conversation had a talent for reducing human beings into tools.
Caleb watched Marta finish the hoof.
She did not rush.
Did not fight the horse when he became impatient.
She waited, adjusted his balance, let him settle, then continued.
That caught Caleb’s attention more than anything else.
Mountain animals punished impatience.
So did mountain weather.
Marta gave the final nail a precise strike and lowered the gelding’s leg.
“Done.”
The horse immediately tried to crowd her.
She planted one hand against his flank.
“Don't start pretending you love me now.”
The gelding shifted away.
Marta straightened.
Her cream work blouse was rolled to the elbows. A brown leather farrier apron covered the front of her long work skirt. Dark-blonde hair had partly escaped its bun and stuck near her cheek. Sweat glistened lightly along her temples.
She noticed Caleb.
Her expression did not change.
“Are you buying something?”
Caleb looked toward the mules.
“Possibly.”
“Or planning to stand there covering the light?”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
“I was told you had three good mountain mules.”
“We have seven.”
“I need three.”
“Then you need to know what kind of load.”
“Winter supply.”
“How high?”
“Black Pine Pass.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“You're North.”
“Yes.”
“The Bear.”
Caleb’s face flattened.
Marta saw she had hit something.
“Not your favorite?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I dislike it too.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“Lazy nickname.”
A small silence.
Caleb said, “You always this friendly with customers?”
“Only ones who interrupt shoeing.”
She removed her apron and hung it from a peg.
“Come on.”
They walked toward mule stalls.
Marta pointed.
“Gray mare is Millie.”
“Strong.”
“Steady.”
“Doesn’t panic in deep snow.”
“The sorrel’s Jonah.”
“Mean in spring.”
“Excellent feet.”
“Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“The dark mule is Peter.”
“Best pack animal here.”
“Won't cross running water first.”
“If another animal crosses, he follows.”
Caleb listened.
Most sellers told him only strengths.
Marta told him limitations first.
That mattered.
“Your brother own the business?” he asked.
Marta’s expression cooled.
“Yes.”
“You run it?”