“You undressed me?”
“Enough to keep you alive.”
Her face went pale.
Simon immediately stepped farther away.
“My sister left clothes here years ago. They're folded beside the bed. Nobody else is here.”
Abigail looked.
A burnt-orange nightdress and wool stockings lay on a chair.
“Why did you help me?”
Simon frowned.
“You were dying.”
“That doesn't answer me.”
“It does where I come from.”
She stared at him.
Simon poured broth into a tin cup.
Instead of approaching, he placed it on the floor halfway between them.
Then he returned to the wall.
Abigail's suspicion deepened.
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
That surprised her.
“Then why put the cup there?”
“Because you're thirsty.”
“And if I don't drink?”
“Then I'll keep it warm.”
She studied him.
Simon leaned against the wall.
He was enormous.
Dark hair brushed his collar.
Several days of beard covered his face.
A hunting knife rested on his belt.
The Sharps rifle leaned nearby.
He looked exactly like every story civilized people told about dangerous men who lived outside towns.
Yet he stayed across the room because she told him to.
That frightened Abigail in a new way.
Cruelty was familiar.
Restraint required different judgment.
Eventually she lowered the poker.
Simon did not move.
“Turn around.”
He did.
Abigail changed.
The orange nightdress was too large in the shoulders but comfortable.
She pulled blankets around herself afterward anyway.
“Done.”
Simon turned.
His eyes moved over her once.
Then stopped.
Abigail noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You stared.”
“Yes.”
That directness startled her.
Simon looked away.
“Sorry.”
She studied him.
“Why?”
He frowned.
“For staring.”
“No. Why were you staring?”
Simon considered.
“You're alive.”
“That is not what your face said.”
His jaw tightened.
Abigail almost smiled.
Simon changed the subject.
“Name?”
“Abigail Prescott.”
His expression changed.
“You know it?”
“Prescott Mine.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
“You related?”
“My father owns it.”
“Used to.”
Abigail's eyes narrowed.
“What?”
Simon regretted it.
“Word in settlements is Sterling controls most of it now.”
“You know Josiah?”
“Know the name.”
Her shoulders stiffened.
Simon watched.
“That who you're running from?”
She looked toward the window.
He had his answer.
The storm trapped them for six days.
Abigail discovered that Simon spoke little but noticed everything.
He noticed when she limped.
When her hands shook.
When she stopped eating because he was watching.
When she woke from nightmares.
He never mentioned her weight.
That fact became more noticeable every day.
She was used to men noticing.
Some pretended not to.
Others stared.
Others joked.
Simon noticed her as a person first and a body second.
But not never as a body.
That became clear on the fourth morning.
Abigail had washed the orange nightdress and stood near the stove wearing a heavy green robe.
Simon came inside carrying wood.
He stopped.
His eyes traveled downward.
Then back up.
Her cheeks warmed.
“There.”
“What?”
“That look.”
Simon stacked wood.
“What look?”
“The one men get.”
He shrugged.
“Men get many looks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
Abigail crossed her arms.
“Never mind.”
Simon straightened.
“No. Tell me.”
She hesitated.
“Men have opinions about women shaped like me.”
Simon looked at her.
“Shaped how?”
She almost laughed.
“You cannot possibly be that ignorant.”
“I live alone.”
“That is not an answer.”
His eyes moved over her.
Not insultingly.
Not quickly.
Abigail's pulse increased.
“You're soft,” he said.
She stared.
“Simon.”
“What?”
“That is not how polite men describe women.”
“You asked a mountain trapper.”
Despite herself, she laughed.
Simon continued.
“Full hips.”
Her laughter stopped.
“Strong legs.”
Heat entered her face.
He realized perhaps too late he had become overly direct.
“Good for winter.”
Abigail burst out laughing again.
Simon frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are strange.”
“I have been told.”
She sobered.
“They said I was too large.”
Simon looked genuinely confused.
“For what?”
“For being desirable.”
His expression hardened.
“Idiots.”
The certainty hit harder than any compliment.
Abigail looked away.
Simon added another log to the stove.
“That Josiah say it?”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
“He said my figure made me easier to dress impressively.”
Simon stared.
She shrugged.
“He liked displaying expensive things.”
Something cold entered Simon's face.
“You ain't a thing.”
Abigail's throat tightened.
She changed the subject.
On the fifth evening, Simon returned carrying an injured barn owl.
Its wing hung badly.
He sat at the table and wrapped it.
Abigail watched.
“You'll get bitten.”
“Probably.”
“It is frightened.”
“Yes.”
“Then why does it keep trying to hurt you?”
Simon glanced at her.
“Scared things don't always know the difference between help and harm.”
Abigail became still.
He returned to the bird.
Neither mentioned the sentence.
That night she finally told him.
Everything.
The debts.
The mine.
Her father.
Josiah.
The wedding.
“You belong to me.”
Simon listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he sat very still.
“What?”
Abigail asked.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“How far Sterling's men can travel after this storm.”
Her stomach tightened.
“You think they'll come?”
“Yes.”
“I hoped they would assume I died.”
“Maybe.”
“You don't believe that.”
“No.”
Simon checked the trail every morning after that.
He carried the Sharps.
Abigail knew it was because of her.
She began to hate how safe that made her feel.
Not because safety was wrong.
Because dependence felt dangerous.
On the seventh night, the temperature fell so sharply ice formed on the inside of the windows.
Simon laid his bedroll beside the door.
Abigail watched from the narrow bed.
“You'll freeze.”
“I won't.”
“The floor is frozen.”
“Almost.”
“Come here.”
Simon looked up.
She immediately regretted the words.
“The bed is large.”
His expression changed.
“It ain't about space.”
“What is it about?”
Simon sat.
His forearms rested on his knees.
“A man knowing his limits.”
Heat climbed Abigail's neck.
“What limits?”