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**Part 3**

Mae woke to the smell of coffee and the low sound of Samuel stirring in the cradle. Gray light filled the cabin. The latch was still set. Gideon was already outside; she heard the dull chop of an axe and the occasional stamp of the mule. She lay still for a moment, testing the quiet, then rose, checked the baby, and dressed in the same damp dress from the day before.

When she opened the door the cold hit sharp and clean. Gideon had cleared a path to the woodpile. He looked up, nodded once, and went back to splitting. Mae carried Samuel to the table, fed him the last of the thinned stew she had saved, and set water to heat. By the time Gideon came in with an armload of wood, coffee was poured and a pan of oats sat on the stove.

“Trail’s passable to the lower bench,” he said. He set the wood down and washed his hands in the basin. “If you want to leave today, we can make the valley by dark. There’s a widow there who takes boarders. She’d have room.”

Mae stirred the oats. “And if I stay?”

“Then we talk about work. Wood. Water. Cooking if you’re willing. Mending. I can pay a dollar a week plus food. The cradle stays where it is. The latch stays yours.” He dried his hands. “No one comes up this ridge unless I bring them. That includes your husband.”

She glanced at Samuel, who had found his thumb. “Silas will look for the gold before he looks for us.”

“He can look. The pass is closed to anyone who doesn’t know it once the next storm hits. That’ll be soon.” Gideon poured coffee and stayed on his side of the table. “You don’t have to decide before breakfast.”

They ate. The oats were plain. Samuel dozed against her arm. Outside, the mule blew and shifted in the lean-to. Mae watched the steam rise from her cup and felt the unfamiliar absence of calculation—how much noise she could make, how quickly she could reach the door, whether the man across from her would count the food she ate against some later debt.

“I’ll stay through the next storm,” she said. “After that I’ll know better what the boy needs and what I can manage.”

Gideon nodded. “Fair.”

He spent the morning showing her the practical things: where the water barrel stood, how the stove draft worked, which hooks held the snowshoes. He did not hover. When Samuel fussed she stepped outside with him; Gideon kept working. At midday she found a clean shirt and a pair of wool socks left on the chair beside the bed—too large, but dry. She changed while he was at the woodpile. The shirt smelled of soap and cedar.

In the afternoon the wind rose. Gideon brought the mule inside the lean-to and barred the outer door. Mae swept the floor, fed the fire, and rocked Samuel until he slept again. When Gideon came in he hung his coat, checked the latch without touching it, and sat to oil a harness strap. The work was quiet. So was the cabin.

“Last night you asked what I wanted,” Mae said after a while. “I answered for the night. Today I want the same things. And I want to know, if the boy gets sick, whether you’ll ride for help or tell me to manage it alone.”

“I’ll ride,” he said. “There’s a doctor two valleys over who owes me a favor. He’ll come if I ask. Or I’ll take you both down if the trail allows.” He looked at the cradle. “I don’t leave children to manage.”

She accepted that. The light faded early. They ate the rest of the stew. Gideon banked the fire and moved his blankets to the far wall again. Mae set the latch, laid Samuel in the cradle, and climbed into the bed. The wool socks were warm. The shirt sleeves hung past her wrists. She listened to the wind test the roof and to the steady sound of Gideon’s breathing across the room.

Sleep came faster than it had the night before. When she woke once to Samuel’s small cry, Gideon did not stir. She fed the baby, settled him, and returned to the bed. The latch held. The fire held. Outside, the first hard snow of the storm began to fall, soft and steady, closing the trail behind them one flake at a time. Mae closed her eyes. For the length of the night, the only demand anyone had made of her was the one she had already answered: stay until morning, and decide again when the light returned.