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**Part 3**

Cole knocked when he returned, three short raps, and waited. The bar lifted. Abigail opened the door only wide enough to see him, then stepped back so he could enter. The cabin smelled of woodsmoke and the oats she had started on the stove. The tin bowl sat clean and upright on the table.

“Traps were empty,” he said. He hung his coat and washed his hands. “Storm’s moving in faster than I thought. We’ll stay close tomorrow.”

She nodded. Her shoulders were still tight, but she no longer kept the table between them. She ladled oats into two bowls and set one at his place without asking. They ate. Samuel—no, the quiet was only the fire and the spoon against tin. Abigail finished half her portion and pushed the rest toward him.

“Eat it,” he said. “You walked half a day yesterday on less.”

She hesitated, then pulled the bowl back and ate. When the bowls were empty she carried them to the basin. Her hands were steadier. She still glanced at him once before she turned her back to rinse them.

In the afternoon he showed her how to bank the fire so it would hold through the night and where the spare blankets were kept in the chest. She listened, repeated the steps once under her breath, and did not flinch when he passed her the wool. Outside, the first snow began to fall in hard, dry flakes. Cole brought an extra armload of wood inside and barred the lean-to door.

“Martha sold my shawl once,” Abigail said while she folded the blanket. “Said I’d work warmer if I was cold enough to hurry. I got it back two days later because the woman who bought it didn’t want the bloodstains.”

Cole set the last log on the pile. “There’s a trunk under the bed. Winter things. Use what fits. Leave what doesn’t.”

She looked at the trunk, then at him. “If I take something, does it come out of the dollar?”

“No.”

That night she latched the door again after he settled on his blankets by the wall. He heard her move around the cabin—soft steps, the creak of the trunk lid, the rustle of cloth. When the lamp went out he stayed still. In the dark she said, very quietly, “The coat is warm. Thank you.”

“Keep it on the chair if you want,” he answered. “It’ll be there in the morning.”

Snow piled against the windows while they slept. Cole woke once to the sound of the wind and the smaller sound of Abigail turning over in the bed. She did not cry out. She did not rise to check the latch. He closed his eyes again.

By mid-morning the trail was gone under six inches of new snow. Abigail had coffee ready and had already split kindling the way he had shown her, stacking it so the dry pieces stayed dry. She still set his cup down and stepped back, but the step was shorter than it had been the day before.

“I’ll stay until the snow melts enough to walk out,” she said. “After that I’ll decide.”

“Fair.”

She nodded. Outside, the mountain kept its weather. Inside, the tin bowl sat where she had left it, dented and ordinary, no longer a reason for anyone to raise a hand. Cole drank his coffee. Abigail warmed hers between her palms. Neither of them spoke of the alley or the paddle or the three coins. The storm would last as long as it lasted. So would the quiet rules that did not require her to bleed for a clean dish. For now, that was enough to keep the fire going and the door latched from the inside.