The freezing rain turned the mud of Orofino into a sucking trap, but the cruelty of the crowd was what truly chilled the marrow. Josephine stood upon the splintered boards of the freight wagon with a rough burlap feed sack pulled tight over her head, shivering while the miners of the Idaho Territory laughed at her ruin.
Cyrus Creed did not laugh, because a man who wore the deep, puckered tracks of a Bitterroot cougar across his jaw understood too well how easily a face could define a soul. He stepped forward through the jeering mob, dropped a heavy pouch of gold onto the wagon bed to pay her cruel handler, and carried her away into the high, lonely snow of the mountains.
The trail to Cyrusโs cabin was steep and buried in drifts, the wind howling through the ancient pines like an injured beast. Cyrus led his pack mule by the lead rope, glancing back every few paces to ensure the slight figure in the mud-stained gray dress was keeping her footing. Josephine walked with her head bowed, her arms wrapped tight around her ribs as if trying to hold her shattered pieces together against the biting gale. She had not spoken a single word since the town square, her only communication the faint, ragged catches of breath that escaped from beneath the coarse weave of the feed sack. Two crude holes had been hacked into the fabric with a pocketknife, revealing nothing more than the terrifying void of darkness within. Cyrus hated the silence, but he hated the noise of the town more. He knew what it was like to be judged by a glance, to feel the eyes of strangers slide away in revulsion or widen in a mockery of pity. By the time the timber walls of his isolated cabin loomed out of the swirling white, his hands were numb inside his thick leather gloves and his chest burned with an old, familiar fury.
Inside, the cabin was warm and smelled of cedar, dried sage, and woodsmoke. Cyrus immediately set to work, stoking the embers in the stone hearth until orange flames licked hungrily up the chimney. He pointed Josephine toward a wooden stool near the hearth and handed her a steaming tin cup of black coffee, watching as her trembling fingers wrapped around the hot metal just to feel the heat. She still wore the sack. It sat over her head like a shroud, grotesque and heavy, blotting out the world. Cyrus busied himself at the counter, slicing cured venison into a heavy iron skillet and tossing in a handful of dried root vegetables. The grease hissed and popped, filling the small room with a rich, savory aroma that cut through the chill.
โYou donโt have to hide here,โ Cyrus said, his deep voice rumbling softly in the quiet room. He kept his back turned, giving her space. โThereโs nobody on this mountain for twenty miles in any direction. Just me, the elk, and the timber wolves. Youโre entirely safe.โ
A sharp intake of breath hissed from behind the burlap. Josephineโs hands shot to her throat, her fingers clawing frantically at the twisted twine that secured the rough fabric beneath her chin. She seemed to panic, as if she had suddenly remembered where she was and who had brought her there, terrified of what payment he might demand for his fifty dollars. Her breathing turned ragged, frantic gasps that rattled in her chest.
Cyrus heard the panic and turned slowly, holding his hands out palms up to show he meant no harm. โI didnโt buy you to own you,โ he said, his tone steady and deliberate. โI bought you because nobody deserves what they did to you today. I know what itโs like to have people stare at a ruined face. But you donโt have to fear me.โ
The frantic clawing at the twine slowed. The tension in Josephineโs rigid shoulders seemed to drain away, replaced by a deep, shuddering sorrow. Her head dropped, and the first quiet sob slipped past her lips, small and broken. She pulled her knees up to her chest on the stool, rocking herself gently back and forth in the flickering firelight.
โThe stewโs ready,โ Cyrus added softly, taking a wooden bowl from the shelf and ladling out the steaming meat and broth. He set it on the rough-hewn table beside her cup. โBut you canโt eat through a feed sack, Josephine. Let me help you.โ
Her hands rose slowly toward her neck, trembling so violently they struck the coarse fabric and fell back down, useless. She looked like a trapped animal, paralyzed by the anticipation of a blow she expected to fall. Cyrus stepped closer, his six-foot-three frame casting a long shadow across the puncheon floor. He stopped a foot away, waiting, giving her every chance to refuse.
โMay I?โ he asked.
After a long, agonizing silence, Josephine gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Cyrus stepped behind the stool. His massive, calloused hands, scarred from years of hard labor in the rugged wilderness, moved with surprising gentleness as he reached for the knotted twine at the back of her neck. His fingers brushed against the coarse hemp, working the stubborn knot loose. He could feel the fine, uncontrollable trembling of her spine against his knuckles. With a final tug, the knot gave way.
Josephine immediately squeezed her eyes shut, turning her head away as if bracing for the inevitable gasp of horror, the cruel laugh, or the sudden rejection that had followed her everywhere since she stepped off the stagecoach from St. Louis.
Cyrus lifted the sack away.
It fell to the floor with a heavy, muffled thud.
For one endless, suspended second, the only sound in the cabin was the steady crackle of the pine logs in the hearth. Then Cyrus stumbled backward. The breath left his lungs in a sharp, violent rush, and all the color instantly drained from his weathered face, leaving him as pale as the snow piled against the windowpanes.