Chapter 4
“Only things that matter.”
I leaned against my cane and watched her move jars.
Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow.
That was when I noticed her hands.
Too smooth.
Not delicate exactly, but wrong for the history I had imagined.
A woman raised on a farm had scars.
Rope burns.
Needle marks.
Cracked knuckles.
Cora’s hands had none.
Yet an hour later, I found her sharpening my skinning knife with the stone at exactly the correct angle.
That afternoon she reset a rabbit snare I had left near the shed.
That evening she picked up my Winchester after I complained about the action sticking.
She worked the lever once.
Twice.
Then sat at the table, removed the side plate, adjusted the loose spring, reassembled the rifle, and handed it back to me.
I stared.
“Who taught you that?”
She wiped a trace of oil from her thumb.
“You learn useful things when you travel.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the answer I have.”
I should have pressed.
Instead, I told myself everyone had a past.
Mine included a dead father, a mother who followed him two winters later, and a brother I had not spoken to in twelve years.
Maybe Cora’s past was none of my business.
That became difficult to believe that evening.
Snow fell heavily after dark.
We ate rabbit stew at the table she had cleaned.
For the first time in years, the cabin smelled like bread instead of smoke, hide, and old coffee.
Cora had made biscuits.
Good ones.
I took a second.
She pretended not to notice.
“You can cook,” I said.
“I can follow instructions.”
“That sounds dangerously close to admitting you have a talent.”
She looked at me.
“Do you compliment everyone this gracefully?”
“I don’t compliment everyone.”
“Clearly.”
I smiled before I could stop myself.
So did she.
It lasted only a second.
Then Cora looked toward the window.
Her smile vanished.
Her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.
She went still.
Not curious.
Not confused.
Afraid.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
That word was too fast.
I turned.
Outside the window, the clearing was disappearing beneath snow.
At first I saw only white.
Then the moon moved between clouds.
Tracks crossed the clearing.
Boot tracks.
Fresh.
Someone had walked from the tree line to the eastern wall of my cabin.
The prints disappeared beyond the window.
I stood.