“Yes.”
“You are here.”
“Yes.”
“And I am getting you out of this cabin whether you like it or not.”
Something broke loose inside him.
Not fear.
The opposite.
He moved.
They opened the trapdoor and crawled into the cellar.
Smoke followed.
Caleb pulled the hatch closed.
They crawled through the narrow tunnel on hands and knees until cold air appeared ahead.
When they emerged behind the ridge, the cabin was burning brightly enough to stain the snow orange.
Caleb stared.
His home.
His shelter.
Eight years of isolation.
Burning.
Evelyn touched his arm.
“I’m sorry.”
Caleb watched flames consume the roof.
Then he said, “I’m not.”
She looked at him.
He turned away.
For the first time, he realized the cabin had never been a home. It had only been the place where he had hidden from losing one.
They reached the line shack before dark.
Caleb had supplies stored there.
Blankets.
A rifle.
Dried meat.
And, most importantly, a pair of snowshoes.
He also had something Evelyn did not expect.
A tin box filled with letters.
Caleb caught her looking.
“Anna?”
He nodded.
“You kept them.”
“Couldn’t burn everything.”
The words came out harsher than intended.
Evelyn sat on the rough bunk.
“What was she like?”
Caleb did not answer for so long that she assumed he would not.
Then he said, “Loud.”
Evelyn smiled faintly.
“Loud?”
“She sang badly. Constantly.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It was.”
He sat opposite her.
“She made bread that could break teeth. Lost everything she touched. Once misplaced my rifle.”
“How?”
“Put it in the chicken coop.”
“Why?”
“Never explained.”
Evelyn laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
Caleb looked away.
“She hated snow.”
“That seems unfortunate in Montana.”
“She complained from October until May.”
His face softened.
“Jacob loved it.”
“How old?”
“Six.”
Evelyn’s smile faded.
Caleb looked toward the darkness outside.
“He had this red scarf. Wouldn’t go anywhere without it.”
His voice thickened.
“After the fire, that was the only thing I found that hadn’t burned completely.”
Evelyn whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Caleb had heard those words many times.
From townspeople.
From preachers.
From men who avoided his eyes.
But somehow, from her, they hurt differently.
He nodded.
Evelyn looked down at her hands.
“Nathaniel wanted children.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
“I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I thought our marriage was already built on too many secrets.”
She hesitated.
“Three months before he died, he finally told me he had done something unforgivable when he was young.”
Caleb looked at her sharply.
“He didn’t tell me what.”
“But you stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her eyes met his.
“Because loving someone does not always mean believing they are innocent.”
That sentence stayed between them.
Caleb asked, “Did you forgive him?”
“No.”
The answer surprised him.
“I never got the chance to decide.”
Outside, the wind rose.
Evelyn rubbed her arms.
Caleb added wood to the little stove.
Then she spoke again.
“There’s something else I remember.”
He turned.
“The man at the coach.”
“What?”
“He wore a ring.”
“What kind?”
“Gold. Black stone.”
Caleb’s expression changed.
“You’ve seen it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
He crossed to the tin box.
Beneath Anna’s letters was an old newspaper clipping.
He unfolded it.
A photograph showed a group of railroad investors at a Helena banquet.
Near the center stood Silas Harrow.
Older.
Silver-haired.
Commanding.
On his right hand was a dark ring.
Evelyn stared.
“No.”
“Recognize it?”
“No.”
She gripped the clipping.
“That isn’t the man.”
Caleb frowned.
“He wears the ring.”
“I know.”
She turned toward him slowly.
“Because Nathaniel wore the same one.”
Caleb stopped breathing.
Evelyn’s face went white.
“No,” she whispered.
Then the memory returned.
All of it.
