Mara expected roughness.
She found order.
The ranch house stood two stories high beneath enormous pines.
Stone foundation.
Heavy timber walls.
Wide porch.
Barn across the yard.
Smoke from the chimney.
Lanterns waiting inside.
No decorative nonsense.
No flower beds.
No painted trim.
No evidence a woman had lived there in seven years.
But everything worked.
Roof straight.
Steps solid.
Wood stacked.
Stable doors hung properly.
Abel took care of what belonged to him.
Mara climbed down.
Her legs nearly collapsed after six hours on the wagon.
She caught the wheel.
Abel reached toward her.
She raised a finger.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
“I can stand.”
“You're shaking.”
“I have been sitting beside a mountain disguised as a man for six hours.”
“That's my fault?”
“Probably.”
She stood fully.
Abel unloaded bags.
Mara walked toward the porch.
At the door, she stopped.
A carved name remained in the wood beside the frame.
ELIZA
Small letters.
Old.
She touched them.
Abel came behind her carrying supplies.
His face changed when he saw her hand.
“My wife.”
Mara removed her fingers.
“She carved it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She said the house had my name all over it and needed hers somewhere.”
Mara smiled faintly.
“I like her.”
Abel looked at the letters.
“So did I.”
He opened the door.
Inside smelled of pine, leather, wood smoke, and years without perfume.
The main room was large.
Stone fireplace.
Heavy table.
Kitchen stove.
Two armchairs.
One had never been moved from beside the window.
Mara knew immediately which chair belonged to Eliza.
A folded quilt remained over the back.
Seven years.
Still there.
She said nothing.
Abel showed her upstairs.
Two bedrooms.
One large.
One smaller.
He put Mara's bags inside the smaller one.
She looked at him.
“You sleep where?”
“Downstairs.”
“Why?”
He paused.
“Habit.”
Mara glanced toward the larger bedroom.
Door closed.
She understood.
“You don't have to surrender your bed because I arrived.”
“I haven't slept there since Eliza died.”
There it was.
Mara looked toward the closed door again.
“What happened?”
Abel's shoulders tightened.
“Tomorrow.”
She almost challenged him.
Then saw his face.
Not refusal.
Pain.
“Tomorrow,” she agreed.
He looked relieved.
That hurt her strangely.
What had people done to this man that he expected questions to become weapons?
Mara unpacked slowly.
Abel cooked supper.
Beef stew.
Bread.
Coffee.
He apologized because it was plain.
Mara ate two bowls.
“You cook well.”
“I survive.”
“Not the same.”
Abel tore bread.
“Can you cook?”
“Yes.”
“Good?”
“Depends how much you irritate me.”
He smiled.
“Dangerous answer.”
“Accurate.”
After supper, Mara stood.
“Where is the wash water?”
“Pump outside.”
“Bath?”
“Tin tub in pantry.”
“Hot water?”
“Stove.”
She stared.
“You live like this voluntarily?”
“You answered the advertisement.”
“I am beginning to suspect fraud.”
Abel laughed.
He helped fill the tub.
Then disappeared outside to give her privacy.
Mara soaked until the water cooled.
Her body hurt from travel.
Bruises darkened one shoulder where the train passenger grabbed her.
She examined them.
Then remembered Abel asking:
Where is he?
Not:
What did you do?
She liked that too much.
Dangerous.
Mara had not crossed half a country searching for romance.
She crossed because the life behind her had become too small.
Her father died when she was nineteen.
Her mother three years later.
Mara worked in boarding houses, kitchens, laundries.
She had been proposed to twice.
First by a butcher who expected a wife to work beside him without pay.
Second by a widower with four children who described marriage as “a practical arrangement” until Mara discovered practical meant she would become unpaid housekeeper, cook, nurse, teacher, and bed companion.
She refused both.
Men called her difficult.
Women called her foolish.
At twenty-eight, unmarried and too independent for respectable society, she read Abel Stone's advertisement.
Steady wife.
Mutual respect.
Remote ranch.
It sounded less like romance than partnership.
That appealed to her.
Now she was discovering partnership might come with dark eyes and hands large enough to circle her waist.
That complicated matters.
After bathing, she came downstairs wearing a clean night dress beneath a wool robe.
Abel stood near the fireplace.
He turned.
Then immediately looked away.
Mara noticed.
“You've seen women before.”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you studying the chimney?”
Abel's jaw tightened.
“You're dressed for bed.”
“I am fully covered.”
“Not the point.”
“What is?”
He looked at her.
The air changed.
Mara stopped teasing.
Abel said quietly:
“We are not married yet.”
“No.”
“I won't assume anything.”
“I know.”
“You can lock your door.”
“I noticed the lock.”
“I won't enter.”
“I know.”
“If you decide tomorrow you want to return to town, I’ll take you.”
Mara crossed her arms.
“You planning to frighten me overnight?”
“No.”
“Then stop offering escape routes.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I want you to know you have one.”
That softened her.
Mara stepped closer.
“Abel.”
“Yes?”
“I came here by choice.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked toward the fire.
Mara stood in front of him.
“Look at me.”
He did.
“I have spent my whole life hearing men explain what women really mean.”
His expression hardened slightly.
“I don't intend to become another.”
“Good.”
“Then believe me when I say I am here.”
He held her gaze.
“All right.”
Mara smiled.
“Better.”
Then she walked upstairs.
At the bottom of the steps she turned.
Abel remained beside the fire.
Watching.
“Goodnight, giant.”
His mouth moved.
“Goodnight, wild woman.”
Mara slept smiling.
Morning revealed why Wolfjaw Ranch needed another pair of hands.
Everything required work.
Cattle needed moving.
Hens needed feeding.
Water trough frozen at the edges.
Fence down near the north pasture.
Bread needed making.
Laundry.
Wood.
Garden neglected.
Abel worked like three men and lived like none.
Mara watched him split wood before breakfast.
One strike.
Log separated.
Another.
Another.
She leaned against the porch post.
“Are you trying to impress me?”
Abel did not stop.
“No.”
“Shame.”
Another log split.
Mara watched his shoulders move beneath the shirt.
Abel finally looked up.
“You staring?”
“Yes.”
He paused.
“At the wood?”
“No.”
The ax nearly missed.
Mara smiled.
Steady indeed.
Abel shook his head.
“You're trouble.”
“You sent for me.”
“I’m reconsidering.”
“No returns.”
He laughed.
By noon, Mara had cleaned half the kitchen, reorganized flour stores, found three jars of preserves from seven years earlier, and threatened Abel with bodily harm if he ever again stored potatoes beside onions.
He stared.
“Why?”
“They spoil faster together.”
“My potatoes survive.”
“Your potatoes have accepted death.”
She threw two into a bucket.
Abel watched.
“You're ruthless.”
“I have standards.”
He began carrying the spoiled food outside.
Mara stopped him.
“Where is your garden?”
“Behind the barn.”
She looked.
A patch of dirt.
Dead stems.
“That's not a garden.”
“Used to be.”
“Eliza's?”
“Yes.”
There it was again.
Mara looked toward the neglected patch.
“Why did you stop?”
Abel put down the bucket.
“She planted it.”
“You don't eat vegetables?”
“I buy some in town.”
“Forty miles away?”
“Yes.”
“You'd rather ride forty miles than plant carrots?”
“Yes.”
Mara studied him.
This was not laziness.
Avoidance.
The garden belonged to memory.
Mara touched his sleeve.
“Show me where the seeds are.”
Abel looked at her hand.
Then at her face.
“Why?”
“Because spring is coming.”
“It is barely March.”
“Then we prepare.”