The bruise on Cora's jaw was a fading yellow, blending into the soot smeared across her cheek. Three years of marriage to Hiram meant three years of learning to breathe shallow, of memorizing the exact cadence of his boots hitting the porch. But tonight, the footsteps were too heavy, too deliberate. When the cabin door swung open, it wasn't the devil she was new. It was a man carved from the mountains, bringing a storm that would tear her cage apart.
Winter didn't just fall on Bitter Creek, it drove itself into the ground like a rusted nail. In inside the one-room cabin, Cora stood over the cast-iron stove. The heat radiating from the metal did nothing to chase the chill from her bones. She stirred a pot of thin rabbit stew. Her right arm hung a little closer to her side than her left.
Two ribs were cracked. She knew they were cracked because they clicked when she took too deep a breath. Hiram had done that on Tuesday. It was Friday now. She didn't pray anymore.
Prayer was for women who lived in towns with churches, women whose husbands didn't smell sourly of fermented mash and unwashed wool. Cora's reality was a cold, hard floor and a ceiling that leaked when the snow melted. Hope was a luxury she couldn't afford. It took too much energy to hope. It was easier to just survive the next 10 minutes, then the 10 minutes after that.
Hiram sat at the scarred wooden table behind her. He was carving a piece of pine with a dull knife. Shavings fell to the floor, mingling with the dirt Cora had swept into a corner just that morning. She didn't say a word about the mess. Speaking to Hiram when he had the whiskey bottle open was like striking a match in a dry barn.
You never knew if it would just flicker out or burn the whole place down. "Smells burnt. " Hiram muttered. His voice was gravelly, thick with the drink. "It's not burnt, Hiram. " Cora said quietly. Her voice was flat, emotionless.
She had learned long ago that showing fear fed him and showing anger provoked him. Dead air was her only defense. "Don't talk back to me, woman. " The scraping of his knife stopped it. Cora froze. The wooden spoon in her hand hovered over the pot.
She calculated the distance between the stove and the door, a useless habit. The door was barred from the inside and even if she made it out, the blizzard howling against the chinking would freeze her solid before she reached the next property. "I wasn't. " She murmured, lowering her head. Hiram pushed his chair back. The wood scraped harshly against the floorboards.
Cora squeezed her eyes shut, her shoulders bracing for the impact. She knew the routine. He would find a flaw in the meal, in the house, in her face. He would use his heavy hands to correct it. Three years of this had ground her down to a nub.
She used to fight back. She used to scream. Now, she just turned her head to protect her teeth. He stepped up behind her. She could smell the stale tobacco on his breath.
"You think you're better than me? " He whispered, his fingers gripping the back of her neck. He squeezed, digging his dirty nails into her skin. "You think cuz your daddy wore a suit, you don't belong in this dirt? " "No, Hiram. Look at me. Cora turned her head slowly.
His face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot and mean. He raised his left hand. Before he could strike, the heavy oak door of the cabin shuddered. It wasn't the wind. The wind rattled.
This was a solid, massive thump. The kind of sound a falling tree makes. Hiram released her neck, his hand dropping to his side. He turned toward the door, his brow furrowing. Who in the hell is out there in this mess?
Cora took a shallow breath, feeling the click in her ribs. She pressed herself back against the stove, grateful for the interruption. Though a new knot of dread tightened in her stomach. Strangers in Bitter Creek were rarely a good thing. Another knock.
Harder this time. The iron hinges groaned. "I'm coming. Hold your damn horses. " Hiram yelled, grabbing his shotgun from the corner. He stomped to the door and threw the bolt.
The wind blew the door inward with violent force, tearing it from Hiram's grip. Snow swirled into the room, instantly coating the floorboards and putting out the single kerosene lantern on the table. In the gray light of the doorway, stood a shadow that blocked out the storm. He was huge. That was the only word Cora's exhausted mind could supply.
He filled the door frame, ducking his head to step inside. He wore thick, brain-tanned buckskin and a heavy bearskin coat, the fur frosted white with ice. A rifle rested easily in his gloved hand, not pointed, but held with the casual readiness of a man who lived his entire life expecting a fight. His face was obscured by a thick, dark beard and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low. But his eyes caught the dim light of the hearth.
They were a pale, piercing gray. They locked onto Hiram, then flicked past him, landing on Cora. She shrank back. Those eyes were sharp. They took in the bruise on her face, the way she favored her ribs, the shotgun shaking slightly in Hiram's hands.
He saw it all in a fraction of a second. "Shut the door. " the man said. His voice voice was a low rumble, deeper than the thunder that rolled through the valley in spring. Hiram, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer size of the intruder, blinked. "What? " "Who are you?
You can't just bust in here. " The stranger didn't argue. He stepped fully into the room, reached behind himself, and slammed the door shut against the gale. He dropped the heavy iron bolt into place, doing it with one hand. The sudden quiet in the cabin was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the melting snow dripping from the stranger's coat. "Gideon. " Hiram breathed, lowering the shotgun an inch.