Neither spoke until they reached it.
Then Nathan stopped.
"I've never seen a room full of cattlemen get that quiet without somebody drawing a gun."
Hannah looked at him.
His face was completely serious.
She laughed.
She could not help it.
The sound surprised both of them.
Nathan stared for half a second.
Then he laughed, too.
Not the small, rough sound she had heard at the table.
This one came from deeper.
Hannah leaned against the wagon wheel, still laughing.
Nathan shook his head.
"You enjoyed that too much."
"I warned you."
"You did."
The cold had reddened his cheeks.
A little snow had collected on the brim of his hat.
For one strange moment, Hannah forgot the receipts.
Mercer, her brothers, all of it.
There was only Nathan standing too close to the hitching rail, smiling at her like he had only just discovered she could make him.
Then his eyes dropped briefly to her mouth.
The smile faded, not badly, just carefully.
Hannah felt the change.
Nathan reached for the wagon step instead.
"Road will freeze harder after dark."
"Yes."
He offered his hand.
This time she took it.
His palm was rough and warm through her glove.
He helped her up without pulling.
When she was seated, he let go at once.
The ride home was quiet, but it was not the same quiet as before.
At Black Pine, Nathan carried the document case inside and set it on the table as carefully as if it contained glass.
Hannah removed her coat.
"You believe me now?"
He looked over.
"About what?"
"That numbers tell on people."
Nathan hung his hat by the door.
"I believed you before."
Hannah paused.
That answer stayed with her long after the lamps were out.
And somewhere back in Pine Hollow, behind an office window on the second floor of Mercer's building, Calvin Mercer sat with a copied freight receipt in his hand and finally stopped thinking of Hannah Whitaker as Nathan Cole's housekeeper.
Two mornings later, Nathan rode out before sunrise to check the winter herd above Black Pine Creek.
Hannah watched him from the porch while fastening the top button of her coat.
"You said the upper count was short."
Nathan tightened the cinch beneath his gelding.
"By seven, then."
"I'm coming."
He looked over the saddle.
"No."
Hannah stopped.
Nathan seemed to hear himself.
He rubbed one gloved hand over the saddle horn.
"Roads are rough."
"I've ridden rough roads."
"Snow's deeper past Miller Ridge."
"I've seen snow."
"Hannah."
"Nathan."
Ben Shaw, carrying a fork full of hay toward the barn, changed direction without explanation.
Nathan looked toward the western sky.
"Fine."
Hannah smiled.
"Thank you."
"I didn't say I liked it."
"You don't have to."
By 8:00, they were climbing through pine timber where snow lay knee-deep beside the trail.
Hannah rode a sturdy bay mare named Daisy, whose opinion of hills seemed as stubborn as her own.
Nathan rode ahead, occasionally turning in the saddle to make sure Hannah remained behind him.
She noticed every time.
She pretended not to.
The herd had drifted higher than expected.
They found cattle sheltered against a south-facing slope beneath scattered firs, their backs powdered white.
Nathan counted while Hannah marked numbers in a small notebook tucked beneath her glove.
"118," he called.
"116."
Nathan looked back.
"You missed two."
"No, you counted that red cow twice."
"I did not."