Jonas paused.
She continued.
“I could have bought a ticket there.”
“I had enough money.”
“Then why didn't you?”
“Because I wanted what you offered.”
“A cabin?”
“A life.”
Jonas stared.
Rebecca’s voice softened.
“I wanted somewhere no man had already decided who I belonged to.”
“That is what your letters sounded like.”
She stepped closer.
“You didn't promise love.”
“You promised room.”
“To work.”
“To decide.”
“To become your partner instead of your possession.”
Jonas’s anger shifted.
Not gone.
But redirected.
“What about Charles?”
“He may follow.”
“May?”
Rebecca looked at the bruises.
“He will.”
Jonas looked toward the door.
“How long before he knows where you went?”
“I used another surname at the station.”
“Marriage agency records?”
Her silence answered.
Jonas swore.
Rebecca stiffened.
“Are you angry with me?”
“Yes.”
She looked wounded.
Jonas continued.
“For not telling me.”
She lowered her eyes.
“And because a man put those marks on my wife.”
Her gaze snapped up.
My wife.
Neither missed it.
Jonas’s voice lowered.
“If Charles Vale climbs this mountain believing he can drag you back down it…”
Rebecca inhaled.
“…he is going to be disappointed.”
She stared.
“Jonas.”
“What?”
“I did not come here asking you to kill someone for me.”
“I have no intention of killing him.”
She relaxed slightly.
“Unless he makes an extraordinary effort to change my mind.”
“Jonas.”
“That was humor.”
“It was terrible.”
“I am still learning marriage.”
Rebecca shook her head.
He stepped closer.
“Show me your arm.”
Her body tensed.
Jonas stopped.
“Only if you want.”
Rebecca looked at him.
Slowly she removed the glove.
Then rolled her sleeve higher.
The marks were worse than Jonas had first seen.
He said nothing.
He did not touch.
Rebecca watched his face.
“You're angry.”
“Yes.”
“You look frightening when you're angry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I didn't say I dislike it.”
Jonas looked at her.
Rebecca’s cheeks reddened.
“This is an inappropriate time for that expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one you just made.”
She smiled faintly.
Jonas exhaled.
Then asked:
“Does it hurt?”
“Less now.”
“Any other injuries?”
“No.”
“Rebecca.”
“No.”
“Truth.”
She met his eyes.
“No others.”
Jonas nodded.
“Good.”
He reached toward her wrist.
Stopped before touching.
Rebecca noticed.
Then turned her arm so her palm faced upward.
Permission.
Jonas gently took her hand.
His fingers were rough.
Huge around hers.
He examined the healing abrasion.
Rebecca watched him.
“Jonas.”
“Yes?”
“You can stop looking as if you're planning to tear down St. Louis brick by brick.”
“I am considering efficiency.”
She laughed softly.
Then his thumb moved once across the inside of her wrist.
The laugh vanished.
Their eyes met.
Jonas became aware of everything.
Her hand inside his.
The heat from the stove.
Snow tapping against the windows.
The bed several feet away.
The fact that she was his wife.
Rebecca’s voice was almost a whisper.
“You said the bed would be mine tonight.”
“Yes.”
“And the floor yours.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still mean that?”
Jonas looked at her mouth.
Again.
Rebecca saw.
Again.
His hand moved from her wrist to her fingers.
“If I answer honestly, no.”
Rebecca’s breathing changed.
“But I’m still sleeping on the floor.”
“Why?”
“Because you have been threatened, hurt, chased across the country, married, and dragged up a mountain in less than a week.”
“You don't know whether I was dragged.”
“You complained about the trail.”
“I survived it.”
“Barely.”
“I am standing.”
“Again, badly.”
Rebecca stepped closer.
Jonas did not retreat.
“You use sarcasm whenever you are uncomfortable.”
“I use sarcasm because people are irritating.”
“I think you're afraid.”
“Of what?”
She placed her free hand on his chest.
Him.
This.
Them.
“You wanted a woman you couldn't fall in love with.”
Jonas stared.
Rebecca continued.
“Strong enough to work.”
“Plain enough not to distract you.”
“Practical enough not to ask questions.”
“Cold enough never to ask why you sleep alone.”
Jonas’s expression hardened.
“You think you know me.”
“I think I know lonely people.”
He gently released her hand.
“Go to sleep.”
“Jonas.”
“Rebecca.”
She studied him.
Then nodded.
“All right.”
He turned toward the stove.
Rebecca moved toward the bed.
Several minutes passed.
Then:
“Jonas?”
“Yes?”
“I was wrong about one thing.”
He looked over.
Rebecca sat on the bed removing her boots.
“What?”
“The cabin.”
“What about it?”
“You are more welcoming.”
Jonas stared.
Rebecca smiled.
He turned away before she could see his.
Winter closed around them.
The first week was miserable.
For Rebecca.
And therefore, unexpectedly, for Jonas.
Altitude headaches.
Cold.
Sore muscles.
Work she had never done.
She dropped an entire pot of beans on the third day and cried in fury.
Not sadness.
Fury.
Jonas found her kneeling beside the mess.
“I ruined dinner.”
“I can see.”
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Say something practical.”
Jonas considered.
“The floor seems well fed.”
Rebecca threw a cloth at him.
He laughed.
She glared.
Then laughed too.
The fourth day she tried splitting wood.
Jonas watched from the barn.
Her first swing barely marked the log.
Second missed.
Third nearly rotated her around the stump.
He walked over.
“Enough.”
“I can do it.”
“I didn't say you can't.”
“Then stop interfering.”
“You are holding the axe wrong.”
“I am holding it with both hands.”
“A remarkable beginning.”
Rebecca glared.
Jonas stepped behind her.
Reached around.
Placed his hands over hers.
Rebecca went still.
So did Jonas.
His chest nearly touched her back.
“Hands lower.”
His voice sounded rough.
Rebecca adjusted.
“Feet wider.”
She obeyed.
Jonas’s mouth was near her ear.
“Let the weight of the head work.”
Rebecca swallowed.
“You are very close.”
“Yes.”
“Necessary?”
“No.”
She turned her head slightly.
Jonas looked at her profile.
Snowflakes in her hair.
Color in her cheeks.
He stepped away before his good intentions died completely.
Rebecca swung.
The wood split.
She turned with pure triumph.
“I did it.”