***

**Part 2**

Cole set the firewood down one stick at a time so the pieces would not clatter. Abigail stayed curled on the floor, arms locked over her head, the tin bowl still rocking beside her knee. He waited until the bowl stopped moving.

“I’m not going to hit you,” he said. His voice stayed low. “You dropped a bowl. That’s all.”

She didn’t move. He could see the tremor running through her shoulders under the thin dress. The buffalo coat he had given her the day before lay across the chair where she had folded it, careful not to let it touch the floor.

“Abigail.” He stayed where he was, hands empty. “Look at me if you can.”

It took her a long moment. When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were wide and dry. She had learned not to waste tears. He recognized the habit.

“The bowl’s tin,” he said. “It dents. It doesn’t break. Pick it up when you’re ready. Or leave it. Either way, no one here is going to raise a hand to you for it.”

She stared at him. Her arms lowered an inch, then another. She reached for the bowl with fingers that still shook, set it upright on the table, and stayed on her knees.

“I was trying to rinse it,” she whispered. “My hands were cold.”

“Then warm them first next time.” He nodded toward the hearth. “Fire’s there. Use it.”

Abigail rose slowly, as if testing whether the floor would hold her. She moved to the hearth and held her hands toward the heat without stepping close enough to crowd him. Cole carried the wood to the box, stacked it, and poured coffee into two tin cups. He set one on the table nearer her side and took the other to the chair by the door.

They drank in silence. Outside, wind moved through the pines. Inside, the only sounds were the fire and the small clicks of the cups against the wood.

“Martha used the paddle when I was slow,” Abigail said after a while. She kept her eyes on the coffee. “Or when I spoke. Or when I didn’t. I stopped trying to learn which one it would be.”

“You don’t have to learn that here.” Cole turned the cup in his hands. “Work is work. If something needs doing and you can do it, do it. If you can’t, say so. Dropped bowls get picked up. That’s the whole rule.”

She glanced at the coat on the chair. “You paid her three coins.”

“I paid her to stop swinging the paddle while I was standing there. What you do after that is yours.” He met her eyes. “You can stay through the winter and earn wages—dollar a week, food, the bed. Or you can leave when the trail’s clear. I’ll take you as far as the settlement. No debt either way.”

Abigail’s fingers tightened around the cup. “And if I stay and I drop something else?”

“Then we pick it up.” He finished his coffee and stood. “I’m going to check the traps. Latch the door if you want. I’ll knock when I come back.”

He pulled on his coat and stepped outside. The cold bit clean. Behind him he heard the soft wooden sound of the bar settling into place. He waited on the step long enough to be sure it had caught, then walked toward the tree line. The bowl was tin. The girl was not. Both would take time to stop expecting the worst from an ordinary noise. He had bought her out of the alley. The rest would have to be learned one unstruck blow at a time.