It was larger than the Whitaker house had been, but somehow looked lonelier.
Nathan opened the ranch gate.
One of the bunkhouse doors swung wide.
A short man with a gray mustache stepped out carrying a lantern.
"Cole."
"Yeah."
The man came closer, light falling over Hannah and the trunks.
His eyebrows went up.
Nathan gave him a look.
Nothing more.
The eyebrows came down.
"Road bad?"
"Getting worse."
"Figured."
The man scratched at his beard.
"Who's your company?"
"Hannah Whitaker."
Nathan looked at her.
"Miss Whitaker, this is Ben Shaw. Foreman."
Ben tipped his hat.
"Ma'am."
"Mr. Shaw."
No staring.
No joke.
Hannah noticed that, too.
Nathan carried the lighter trunk to the house.
Hannah insisted on keeping one hand on the heavy one, even when Ben offered to help.
Inside, warmth met her first.
Not comfort.
Just heat.
A cast-iron stove stood against the far wall with a coffee pot blackened from years of use.
The room held a plain table, four mismatched chairs, a rifle rack, hooks crowded with coats, and a desk buried under paper.
The place smelled of woodsmoke, leather, coffee, and dust.
Nothing hung on the walls except a calendar from a Boise Hardware Company and an old horseshoe nailed above the back door.
Hannah slowly removed her gloves.
"This is your house."
Nathan shut the door against the wind.
"Yes."
"You live here?"
"Yes."
She looked at the desk again.
"You sure?"
Ben coughed to hide a laugh.
Nathan ignored him.
"There's a room at the end of the hall."
He picked up her smaller trunk.
Hannah stopped him.
"I can manage that one."
"I know."
He carried it anyway.
She followed him down a narrow hallway.
The spare room was clean enough, though clearly unused.
Iron bedstead, washstand, small mirror, wool blanket folded at the foot of the mattress, one chair beside the window.
Nathan set the trunk down.
"I'll get water heated."
"You don't need to."
"I need some, too."
He left before she could argue.
Hannah closed the door.
For several seconds, she simply stood there.
A room with a door.
No Samuel, no Peter, no one telling her what space she was allowed to occupy.
She took off her bonnet and set it carefully on the bed.
Then her shoulders dropped, just once, only long enough to feel how tired she was.
When she returned to the main room, Nathan had poured coffee into two thick white mugs with chips around the rims.
A plate of cold biscuits sat on the table beside a crock of beans.
"Ben says Mrs. Shaw didn't make it out today because of the weather," Nathan said. "So this is what there is."
Hannah sat.
"You always eat like this?"
"Mostly."
"That explains the house."
He looked at her over his mug.
She took a sip of coffee.
"Strong enough to strip paint."
"You make this?"
"Yes."
"That explains something else."
This time he did smile, barely.
It changed his whole face.
Hannah looked down at her coffee before he could see she had noticed.
They ate quietly.
Afterward, Nathan leaned back in his chair.
"What will you do tomorrow?"