That one Samuel had never bothered opening. He had never cared enough about the ranch books to know which papers mattered.
"Go on, then," Hannah said.
Peter turned.
"Hannah, go."
Samuel flicked the reins.
The wagon lurched forward.
Peter looked back once.
She hated him for that more than if he hadn't looked at all.
Then the road curved between the pines and her brothers disappeared.
Hannah stood motionless until even the sound of the wheels was gone.
Only then did she sit on the larger trunk.
The cold found her quickly. It came down from the mountains through the trees and worked beneath her collar.
By late afternoon, the mud had begun stiffening around her boots.
She did not cry, not because she wasn't close, but because crying would accomplish nothing, and night was coming.
She tried dragging the lighter trunk toward Pine Hollow. After 20 yards, one corner caught in a rut.
She stopped, breathing hard.
"Fine."
Her voice sounded very small among the trees.
She left both trunks beside the road and walked far enough around the bend to see whether town might be closer than it looked.
Nothing.
No chimney smoke, no lanterns, just the road descending through timber toward a valley she could not yet see.
When she returned, the light was already thinning.
Then she heard something.
Hoofbeats, slow, heavy, coming from Pine Hollow.
Hannah stood beside her trunks and slipped one hand into her coat pocket, closing her fingers around the little folding knife her father had given her years ago.
A horse appeared around the bend.
The rider seemed too large for it.
He wore a dark coat, battered hat, leather gloves, and mud-stained boots.
His shoulders were so broad that for one strange second, Hannah wondered whether the failing light was playing tricks.
It wasn't.
The man reined in 20 feet from her.
His horse breathed steam.
He looked at Hannah, then the trunks, then past her at the road.
"Evening."
His voice was low.
"Evening."
"You waiting on somebody?"
"No."
His eyes went to the wagon tracks. They were easy enough to read.
Fresh ruts came from the east, stopped beside Hannah, then continued west toward town.
Nothing had arrived to meet her.
The man's jaw shifted once.
He dismounted.
Hannah had thought him big on horseback.
Standing on the ground, he was astonishing.
Well over six feet, perhaps six and a half, with the thick chest and long arms of a man who had spent years lifting feed sacks, wrestling gates, and working cattle.
He stopped several paces away rather than crowd her.
"Nathan Cole."
"Hannah Whitaker."
"You from around here?"
"Not anymore."
He looked toward the mountains.
The first small flakes of snow had begun drifting between the pines.
"Cold's coming hard tonight."
"So I've noticed."
One corner of his mouth moved, though she could not tell whether it was amusement.
"Pine Hollow's three miles yet."
Hannah looked down the darkening road.
"Three miles?"
Nathan followed her gaze.
"There's a boarding room above Keller's store. Might be full."
"I'll manage."
He nodded as though she had told him the weather.
Then he bent and took hold of the smaller trunk.
Hannah blinked.
"What are you doing?"
"Putting this on my horse."
"I didn't ask you to."
"No."
He lifted it anyway.
The trunk that had nearly pulled Hannah's shoulder from its socket came off the ground in his hands with insulting ease.
She stared despite herself.
Nathan secured it behind his saddle, then turned toward the second trunk.
Hannah stepped between them.
"No."
He stopped.
"That one stays with me."
"It's heavier."
"I know."
"Road's getting dark."
"I know that, too."
For the first time, he looked directly into her eyes for more than a second.
Not down at her body, not over her.