Nathan's voice was low.
"Didn't matter that day."
The stove popped.
"I told him the crossing would hold."
Hannah listened.
"I'd crossed that creek a hundred times. Thought I knew it."
He swallowed.
"Thought because I was strong enough to ride it, he was too."
His breath caught slightly.
"He looked at me before he went in. Asked if I was sure."
Hannah turned then.
Nathan stared at the ceiling.
"I said yes."
Silence.
"When they found his horse downstream, I knew before they found him."
Hannah's throat tightened.
Nathan continued.
"After that, I decided the easiest thing was not needing anybody."
She watched his profile in the stove light.
"That work?"
"No."
The answer came quickly, almost too quickly.
Nathan turned his head.
Their faces were close.
Hannah could see the small pale scar beside his eyebrow.
He said, "Then you showed up."
She looked away.
"That wasn't exactly by choice."
"No."
"You found me because my brothers left me."
"I know."
"And you needed somebody to clean up your accounts."
"That came later."
Hannah pulled the blanket higher.
The words that came next embarrassed her before she even said them.
"My whole life, people kept me when I was useful."
Nathan was quiet.
"Father needed his books. Samuel needed meals and records. Peter needed somebody to catch his mistakes."
She swallowed.
"If I worked hard enough, there was always a place at the table."
The wind pushed against the door.
Hannah looked toward it.
"I suppose I learned the wrong lesson."
"What lesson?"
"That if I stop being useful, I stop being worth keeping."
Nathan's face tightened.
"Hannah."
She shook her head.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Say something kind because we're trapped in a cabin."
"I wasn't going to."
She looked at him.
He took a breath.
"I was going to say your brothers were fools."
That surprised a small laugh out of her.
Nathan did not laugh.
He watched her.
Then his eyes dropped.
Not to her body.
To her mouth.
Hannah felt every inch of space between them.
Nathan's good hand rested on the blanket.
He did not move it.
"Hannah."
"Yes."
His voice was barely louder than the stove.
"May I kiss you?"
For one second, she could not answer.
This man could lift a gate alone, pull cattle from frozen ditches, carry trunks as though they were bales, and he was lying perfectly still beside her, waiting, not assuming, not taking, waiting.
Hannah looked at him.
Nathan did not move closer.
So she did.
The kiss was soft, almost uncertain.
His breath stopped when her lips touched his.
Then his hand came up slowly and rested against the side of her face.
Nothing more.
No urgency.
No demand.
When they separated, their foreheads remained close.
Nathan whispered, "You sure?"
Hannah smiled in the dark.
"You ask too many questions."