Red marks ran beneath her ribs.
Purple bruising showed along one side.
Josephine stared at herself in the small mirror.
Her body returned to its natural shape.
Soft.
Round.
Full.
The shape people had spent years telling her required correction.
She lifted the blue nightdress.
It fit.
Barely.
Across the chest it was snug.
At the hips, generous.
The wool felt soft against her skin.
For the first time that entire day, Josephine breathed without pain.
She started crying.
Quietly.
Not because of Harlan.
Because breathing should never have felt like a gift.
When she emerged, Harlan was kneeling beside the fire.
He looked up.
Then stopped.
Josephine noticed his gaze travel over the blue nightdress.
Not crudely.
Not secretly either.
He simply looked.
Color warmed her cheeks.
“Well?”
Harlan blinked.
“Well what?”
“Does it fit?”
“Yes.”
“That's all?”
His eyes narrowed.
Josephine regretted asking.
Then he stood.
“It looks better than the other thing.”
“The wedding dress?”
“Yes.”
“Because?”
“You can breathe.”
The answer should not have disappointed her.
Strangely, it did.
Harlan saw something in her face.
He frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn't nothing.”
Josephine moved toward the fire.
“You are unusually observant for a savage.”
Harlan almost smiled.
“Who called me savage?”
“The valley.”
“Valley says many things.”
“Yes.”
Josephine sat.
Her body relaxed into the chair.
Harlan poured stew into a bowl.
He handed it to her.
She ate.
Then another.
Harlan watched.
Josephine noticed.
Immediately, old embarrassment returned.
She slowed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“You were hungry.”
She looked down.
“I should stop.”
“Why?”
“I've had enough.”
“You've eaten half a bowl.”
“It was large.”
Harlan frowned.
“You're hungry.”
“No.”
Her stomach betrayed her with an audible sound.
Harlan looked at her.
Josephine closed her eyes.
“Wonderful.”
He ladled more stew.
“You don't need to.”
“You're hungry.”
“I've already eaten.”
“Then eat more.”
Her eyes opened.
“Do you always order people?”
“Only when they're being foolish.”
Josephine stared.
Then she ate.
Harlan did not comment on how much.
That alone felt revolutionary.
After supper, he showed her the cabin.
Storage cellar.
Water barrel.
Food shelves.
Washroom.
Smokehouse outside.
He had prepared space in the bedroom wardrobe.
Half empty.
“For my things?”
“If you have any.”
Josephine smiled bitterly.
“One trunk.”
“Where is it?”
“Reverend Stokes left it by the porch.”
Harlan stared.
“In the storm?”
“I suppose.”
He opened the door.
Wind exploded inside.
Josephine gasped.
Harlan stepped into the blizzard.
Ten minutes later, he returned carrying her trunk on one shoulder.
Snow covered his beard.
Josephine stared.
“You went out for it.”
“Yes.”
“My dresses could have survived until morning.”
“Probably.”
“Then why?”
He set the trunk near her room.
“Because they're yours.”
Again.
That practical intimacy.
Josephine began to understand Harlan's language.
He did not compliment.
He provided.
He did not promise safety.
He stacked enough firewood for a week.
He did not say she could trust him.
He gave her a lock.
The first night, Josephine slept badly.
Not because she feared Harlan.
Because she did not.
That confused her.
She lay beneath two blankets wearing the blue nightdress while snow struck the windows.
Her door was locked.
A lamp burned low.
For twenty-two years she had lived in houses filled with people.
Father.
Aunt Margaret.
Servants when money had been better.
Neighbors.
Church women.
Cousins.
Yet she had rarely felt alone in the comforting sense.
Privacy had always been conditional.
Doors opened without knocking.
Letters were read.
Clothing selected.
Meals commented upon.
Her body discussed as though Josephine herself had left the room.
Now she was locked inside a mountain cabin with the most feared man in the valley.
And nobody could enter her room unless she chose.
The thought was almost funny.
Morning brought another surprise.
Harlan knocked.
“Josephine?”
“Yes?”
“Breakfast.”
“Coming.”
“No hurry.”
She dressed.
Not the corset.
Never again.
She chose the dusty-rose dress but left the bodice looser.
When she entered the kitchen, Harlan looked.
His eyes paused at her waist.
Josephine braced herself.
Then he said, “Better.”
“What?”
“Breathing.”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
Breakfast was eggs, potatoes, and bread.
Josephine ate until full.
Harlan said nothing.
Afterward she attempted to help with dishes.
He objected.
“I can wash.”
“So can I.”
“You arrived yesterday.”
“And?”
“You should rest.”
“I have rested twenty-two years according to my aunt.”
Harlan frowned.
“She sounds unpleasant.”
Josephine laughed.
“You truly don't like her.”
“I've never met her.”
“Yet.”
“That sounds threatening.”
She smiled.
Their first week developed a rhythm.
Harlan worked outside.
Josephine explored.
She discovered that the cabin was better organized than any home she had ever known.
Tools were maintained.
Food labeled.
Boots repaired before wearing through.
Blankets aired.
Dried meat stored correctly.
Harlan trapped, hunted, traded hides, kept a few cattle, and maintained nearly thirty miles of winter lines through the mountains.
He lived alone because isolation suited his work.
Or so he claimed.
On the fifth evening, Josephine asked:
“Why did you want a wife?”
Harlan stopped sharpening his knife.
“Who said I did?”
She stared.
“My father sold you my marriage contract.”
“Yes.”
“That generally implies interest in marriage.”
He resumed sharpening.
“Your father owed me money.”
Josephine's stomach dropped.
“How much?”
“Twenty dollars.”
The knife moved across stone.
“And?”
“He offered horses.”
“And me.”
Harlan stopped.
“No.”
Josephine's face tightened.
“He did.”
“He offered the contract.”
“What difference?”
Harlan looked at her.
“All of it.”
She waited.
“He said if I did not take the contract, he would sell it to Samuel Croft.”
Josephine went pale.
She knew the name.
Everyone did.
Samuel Croft owned a freight yard outside Helena.
He had buried two wives.
Rumors surrounded both deaths.
One fell from a loft.
The other reportedly wandered into winter snow barefoot.
Josephine's hands began trembling.
Harlan saw.
“You know him.”
“Yes.”
“That's why.”
“Why what?”
“Why I paid.”
Understanding came slowly.
“You didn't want a wife.”
Harlan looked toward the fire.
“No.”
Something inside Josephine cracked.
She hated how much that hurt.
Of course he had not wanted her.
Why would he?
The valley had been right.
A woman like her should be grateful.
Harlan noticed her expression.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Josephine.”
“You don't have to pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“That you wanted me.”
Harlan frowned.
“I didn't know you.”
“That wasn't my question.”
He stood.
The room seemed smaller.
Josephine immediately regretted confronting him.
Harlan walked toward her.
Stopped several feet away.
“I did not buy the contract because I wanted a wife.”
She looked down.
“But?”
Her eyes lifted.
“But I haven't regretted that you came.”
Josephine's breath caught.
Harlan continued.
“That is different.”
“Yes.”
“Is it enough?”
She did not know.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
Harlan nodded.
“Then today is enough.”
That became another rule.
Today was enough.