He stood perfectly still, his breath clouding in front of his face, his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, locked onto the chimney. A thin wisp of smoke barely visible against the gray sky, was breathing from the flue. Jonah's hand went instantly to the knife at his belt. He did not draw it, but he rested his palm on the handle. The clerk had said the place was empty, abandoned.
He looked at the ground near the porch steps. The wind was scrubbing the earth, but it had not yet erased the signs. There were bootprints, small ones, and a line dragged through the snow like a sled or a travois. Someone was inside. Jonah approached the door like a man expecting a trap.
He did not stomp his feet to clear the snow. He moved with the rolling, silent gate of a hunter. He stepped onto the porch, avoiding the rotting planks he had spotted earlier, and stood by the door. He listened. From inside, he heard the faint scrape of metal on iron.
Someone was tending a stove. Jonah did not knock. He owned this door. He lifted the latch and pushed it open, stepping inside quickly, scanning the room in a single heartbeat. The interior was dim, lit only by the orange glow of the stove and a single kerosene lamp turned low.
The air smelled of wood smoke and something sharper. Fear. In the corner, rising from a crude chair, was a woman. She was small, thin to the point of gauntness, dressed in a faded wool dress that had been mended a dozen times. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a tight braid that fell over her shoulder.
But Jonah did not look at her hare. He looked at the Winchester rifle she had leveled at his chest. Her hands were shaking, the barrel wavering in the air, but her finger was curled tight around the trigger. "Get out," she said. Her voice was not loud.
It did not scream. It was the steady, flat voice of someone who had learned that screaming did nothing to stop bad things from happening. Jonah stopped, his hands held away from his body, palms open. He was a large man filling the doorway, blocking the fading light. He saw her eyes widen as she took in his size, his knife, the rough look of him.
He saw something else, too. He saw the dark purple bruises encircling her wrists, stark against her pale skin. He saw the way she favored her left side, as if her ribs were taped. He saw the hollows under her cheekbones that spoke of hunger. "I said get out," she repeated, shifting her grip on the rifle.
I will shoot. Jonah believed her. He had seen cornered animals before. They were the most dangerous kind. This is my cabin, Jonah said, his voice low and rumbling in the small room.
I bought the deed at the auction in town today. The woman blinked, confusion flickering across her face, but the rifle did not lower. You are lying, she said. Nobody buys this place. It is cursed.
I paid a dollar for it. Jonah said. I have the paper in my pocket. He moved his hand slowly toward his coat. Stop.
She snapped, the barrel steadied on his heart. Jonah froze. He looked at her. Really looked at her. She was Matei.