He guessed by the set of her eyes and the high cut of her cheekbones. She had the look of the mixed blood families who worked the fur trade up north. She was beautiful in a haunted broken way. But right now, she looked like she was made of wire and glass, ready to shatter. "I am not going to hurt you," Jonah said.
"That is what they all say," she replied bitterly. Outside, the wind gusted, rattling the loose shingles on the roof. The temperature was dropping fast. If he went back down the mountain now, in the dark and the storm, he would likely freeze or his horse would break a leg. Look, Jonah said reasonable.
The storm is coming. A bad one. I have a horse outside that needs shelter. I have food. At the word food.
Her eyes flickered to the sack of flour he had dropped on the porch. The hunger in her expression was raw and unguarded. I am not leaving, Jonah said. I own this roof, but I am not going to throw you out in a blizzard. She watched him, her mind working behind her dark eyes.
She was weighing the danger of the man against the danger of the winter. She looked at his hands, then at his face. She seemed to be searching for the cruelty she expected to find there. "Put your knife on the table," she said. Jonah hesitated.
A man did not give up his blade, but he looked at the bruise on her wrist again. He reached to his belt, unbuckled the sheath, and laid the heavy knife on the rough hewn table in the center of the room. "The rifle," he said. "Point it at the floor. " She did not lower it completely, but she angled it away from his chest, keeping it ready. You stay on that side of the room, she said.
Jonah nodded. He stepped back out to the porch, grabbed his supplies, and hauled them inside. He kicked the door shut against the wind, dropping the heavy wooden bar into place. The sudden silence in the room was heavy. He began to unpack, his movement slow and deliberate so as not to startle her.
He sat the flour, the coffee, and the beans on the floor. He saw her watching the food as if it were gold. "What is your name? " Jonah asked, breaking the silence. She hesitated. "Amily," she said softly.
"Millie Jonah Crow. " "He said. " He looked around the single room. It was sparse. There was a narrow bed in the corner with a straw tick mattress and one good wool blanket, a rusted stove, a shelf with a few jars of dried beans that looked mostly empty. On the table sat a battered Bible and a small tin. The lid was open, revealing a few sewing needles and a spool of thread.
"You live here alone? " Jonah asked. Millie's chin went up. "I do now? " she did not elaborate. And Jonah did not ask. He saw a loose floorboard near the hearth that sat slightly higher than the others, as if something was wedged beneath it, but he filed that away for later.
The wind howled again. A long, mournful sound that shook the logs. Snow hissed against the single window pane. "We need wood," Jonah said. He went to the stove and checked the firebox.
It was low. He added a few sticks from the small pile next to it. Millie watched him, her body tense, coiled tight. Night fell like a hammer. The cabin grew dark except for the pool of light from the lamp.