Carmen awoke before sunrise because something struck the cabin wall.
She sat upright.
Another thump.
Then a scraping sound.
For one terrifying moment she imagined a stranger outside.
She reached for the iron poker beside the stove.
Coulter dropped from the loft almost silently.
"What is it?"
Carmen pointed.
"Something's outside."
He listened.
Thump.
Scratch.
Coulter's expression relaxed.
"That'll be Eleanor."
Carmen stared.
"Who is Eleanor?"
"A goat."
Carmen lowered the poker.
"You named your goat Eleanor?"
"No. Old Mrs. Nash did."
He opened the door.
A stubborn brown goat stood with her horns caught beneath a loose board.
Coulter freed her.
Carmen watched from inside.
"Does she belong to you?"
"Apparently she belongs to anyone whose vegetables she can steal."
The goat marched into the cabin.
Carmen stepped aside in alarm.
"Eleanor."
Coulter pointed toward the door.
The goat ignored him.
Carmen laughed before she could stop herself.
Coulter looked over.
There it was again.
That almost surprised expression whenever she smiled.
By the end of the first week, Carmen understood exactly how little she knew about surviving without servants.
Water did not appear magically in basins.
Firewood did not stack itself.
Clothing did not return clean to drawers.
Meals required work before cooking even began.
Her first attempt at lighting the iron stove filled the cabin with smoke.
Her second scorched a pot.
Her first biscuits resembled rocks.
The bread was worse.
Coulter came home after ten hours at the stable and found Carmen staring at the loaf as though it had personally betrayed her.
"It's ruined."
He removed his coat.
"Looks fine."
"Don't lie."
"I'm not."
She handed him the knife.
"Cut it."
Coulter tried.
The blade barely scratched the crust.
Carmen folded her arms.
He tried harder.
Nothing.
She raised one eyebrow.
Coulter inspected the loaf.
"My first bread was worse."
"Impossible."
"Stable master nearly used it to hammer a nail."
Carmen's mouth twitched.
"You are lying."
"Probably."
She laughed.
Coulter smiled.
The moment lasted only seconds.
But the cabin felt warmer afterward.
Slowly they developed routines.
Coulter rose before dawn.
Carmen learned to prepare coffee.
He carried water before leaving.
She swept, washed, mended, and experimented with meals.
When he returned, he chopped wood while she cooked.
At first their conversation remained cautious.
They discussed weather.
Supplies.
Horses.
Whether Eleanor the goat had committed another crime.
But Carmen noticed things.
Coulter always wiped his boots before entering.
He never touched her unexpectedly.
If she moved past him in a narrow space, he stepped away.
When she spoke, he listened.
Actually listened.
It was unsettling.
One evening Carmen found him sitting at the table with a folded newspaper.
He held it strangely.
Too close.
His brow tightened.
When Carmen entered, he quickly set it aside.
"What were you reading?"
"Nothing important."
She picked up the paper.
An advertisement for winter feed had been circled.
"You need something from this?"
"I'll ask Harlan tomorrow."
"Why not read it now?"
Coulter's face changed.
It was subtle.
But Carmen saw embarrassment.
He reached for the newspaper.
"Doesn't matter."
She did not hand it over.
"Coulter."
His jaw tightened.
"I can read some."
Understanding came slowly.
"Some?"
"Enough."
He looked toward the stove.
"Names. Signs. Prices if they're written clearly."
Carmen lowered herself into the chair opposite him.
"Who taught you?"
"My mother, before she died."
"How old were you?"
"Nine."
"And after that?"
He shrugged.
"I worked."
Carmen looked at the newspaper again.
"Would you like to learn?"
His eyes snapped toward hers.
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
She waited.
Coulter looked uncomfortable.
Finally he sighed.
"I don't want charity."
"Teaching isn't charity."
"Feels like it."
"Then pay me."
He frowned.
"With what?"
"You teach me something."
He glanced around the cabin.
"Such as?"
"Everything I'm terrible at."
That made him smile.
"Could take years."
Carmen kicked his boot beneath the table.
Coulter laughed.
It was the first time she had heard the sound.
"All right," he said. "Deal."
Their lessons began the next evening.
Carmen wrote COULTER MORSE on a piece of paper.
He stared at it.
"I know my name."
"Good. Read it."
He did.
Then she wrote CABIN.
HORSE.
WINTER.
CARMEN.
He paused at her name.
"Carmen."
"Very good."
"I knew that one."
"Then why did you stare at it?"
He looked embarrassed.
Carmen decided not to rescue him.
Eventually he said, "Because it looks nicer written down than I expected."
Her cheeks warmed.
She moved to the next word.
The lessons became the quiet center of their evenings.
Some nights Coulter was exhausted.
Still he sat beside the lamp.
His hands, capable of calming frightened horses and repairing broken tack, struggled painfully with a pencil.
Carmen never rushed him.
When he confused letters, she repeated them.
When he became frustrated, she changed exercises.
When he finally read a complete paragraph from an old children's primer, he stopped at the final sentence.
Silence.
Carmen smiled.
"You did it."
Coulter read it again.
Then once more.
Slowly he lifted his eyes.
"Why are you this kind?"
Carmen blinked.
"What?"
"You could laugh."
"I wouldn't."
"You could think I'm stupid."
"I don't."
"You've read more books than half the town."
"That doesn't make me better than you."
"It probably makes you smarter."
"Not about horses."
He almost smiled.
Carmen leaned forward.
"You know things I don't. I know things you don't. That's not shameful."
Coulter looked at her for several seconds.
"You had every reason to hate coming here."
Carmen's smile faded.
"I hated how I got here."
"Same thing."
"No."
She looked around the modest cabin.
A fresh curtain she had sewn hung near the window.
A jar of wildflowers sat on the table.
Her mother's quilt covered the bed.
Coulter's repaired chair no longer wobbled.
"I don't hate being here."
Something passed across his face.
Hope.
Fear.
Perhaps both.
The next morning, Thomas Kelly arrived.
Carmen was hanging laundry when a polished carriage stopped near the cabin.
Her stomach tightened.
Thomas stepped down wearing a dark coat unsuited to the dusty road.
His gaze traveled over the cabin.
Then the laundry.
Then Carmen.
"You look thin."
"I'm fine."
"Is Morse here?"
"Working."
Thomas gave a humorless laugh.
"Of course."
Carmen put another shirt over the line.
"What do you want?"
"I came to see whether you've learned anything."
She stopped.
Thomas looked toward the cabin.
"A month in poverty can educate a person."
Carmen's hands curled around the damp cloth.
"I have learned quite a lot."
"I'm pleased."
"Probably not what you hoped."
His expression hardened.
Thomas stepped closer.
"Carmen, this foolishness can still end."
She stared.
"What do you mean?"
"Everett has calmed."
Her stomach dropped.
"He would consider taking you if the marriage could be quietly annulled."
Carmen almost laughed.
"You can't be serious."
"Look around."
Thomas pointed toward the cabin.
"You carry water. You wash another man's work shirts. You cook over iron. Is this truly the future you want?"
Carmen thought of Coulter reading his first paragraph.
She thought of his blanket in the loft.
She thought of his rough hands carefully repairing the clasp on her mother's necklace without being asked.
"Yes."
Thomas stared.
"What?"
"I said yes."
"You can't mean that."
"I do."
"You would choose this over Langley's estate?"
"I'm choosing my own life over yours."
Thomas's face flushed.
"Don't romanticize poverty."
"I'm not."
"You think that man respects you? He agreed to take you like discarded property."
Carmen stepped forward.
"He married me because he heard men joking about hurting me."
Thomas went still.
"He told you that?"
"Yes."
"He could be lying."
"Why? To get access to the bed he's never slept in?"
Thomas's eyes sharpened.
Carmen immediately knew she had revealed too much.
"You don't share a bed?"
"That is none of your concern."
A strange satisfaction appeared in Thomas's expression.
"So this isn't a marriage."
Carmen's voice turned cold.
"It's more of one than you ever intended."
Thomas approached.
"Come home."
"No."
"I am giving you a final opportunity."
"No."
"You are throwing your future away."
Carmen lifted her chin.
"My future was never yours to give me."
Thomas stared at her.
Then he said something she would remember for years.
"When he gets tired of pretending you're special, don't come begging me for rescue."
Carmen's eyes burned.
Before she could answer, hoofbeats approached.
Coulter rode into the yard.
He saw Thomas.
His entire posture changed.
He dismounted.
"Mr. Kelly."
Thomas looked at him.
"Morse."
Coulter walked toward Carmen, stopping beside her without touching her.
That mattered.
Thomas noticed.
"I've offered Carmen the chance to return home."
Coulter looked at her.
Only her.
"Do you want to?"
"No."
"Then I guess that's settled."
Thomas's jaw tightened.
"You presume a great deal."
Coulter remained calm.
"No, sir. I asked my wife what she wanted."
The words landed like a slap.
Thomas climbed into the carriage.
Before leaving, he looked at Carmen.
"This isn't over."
The carriage disappeared down the road.
Carmen stood motionless.
Coulter waited until it was gone.
"You all right?"
"No."
He nodded.
"Want to talk?"
"No."
"Want me nearby anyway?"
Her throat tightened.
"Yes."
So he stayed.
They sat on the cabin step without touching.
Minutes passed.
Then Carmen rested her hand on the boards between them.
Coulter looked down.
Slowly, cautiously, he placed his hand beside hers.
Their little fingers touched.
Neither moved away.
For the first time Carmen understood that intimacy did not always begin with a kiss.
Sometimes it began with someone asking whether you wanted them to stay.
And respecting the answer.
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