PART 2 — THE WOMAN WHO REFUSED TO STAY DOWN

Martha Higgins looked up at Jed Boon from the frozen trail.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Her knee throbbed. One bucket lay on its side, and the water she had worked so hard to collect was disappearing into the snow. The other bucket remained upright, its handle half-buried in the slush.

Jed watched from the porch.

He expected her to cry.

He expected her to curse him, demand a horse, or remind him that he had promised her a home rather than a punishment.

Instead, Martha slowly pushed herself onto one elbow.

Then she examined the spilled water.

“Well,” she muttered, “that’s a waste.”

She reached for the fallen bucket.

A sharp pain sH๏τ through her knee, and she had to stop. Her face тιԍнтened, but she refused to make a sound.

Jed finally stepped off the porch.

“Leave it.”

Martha didn’t look at him. “I can’t.”

“I said leave it.”

“And I heard you.”

She tried to stand. Her injured leg trembled, and she nearly fell again.

Jed crossed the remaining distance and caught her arm.

“You’re going to break something if you keep that up.”

Martha looked at his hand, then at his scarred face.

“Then perhaps you should have told me where the safe path was.”

His expression hardened.

“You were told to fetch water.”

“I was also told not to fall in the creek. I managed that much.”

For the first time, Jed seemed unable to find an answer.

He took the remaining bucket, then reached down and lifted the empty one.

“Come on.”

Martha limped beside him, leaning only slightly on his arm. She hated needing help, but she hated the thought of letting him believe she had given up even more.

Inside the cabin, Jed made her sit near the fire.

He examined her knee with an awkwardness that suggested he had spent years treating injuries but very little time comforting people.

“Swelling,” he muttered. “Might be bruised. Might be worse.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He glanced at her.

“Where?”

“Life.”

That ended the conversation.

Jed wrapped a warm cloth around her knee and placed a cup of H๏τ water beside her. Then he returned to the door and stood there, looking out at the gathering snow.

Martha watched him.

“Why did you bring me up here?”

He didn’t turn.

“Because I answered the advertisement.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is the only one I have.”

He gave a humorless laugh.

“Three women came before you. Every one of them thought a mountain man would become a different person once a wedding ring was involved. They wanted a pretty cabin, warm meals, and someone who spoke sweetly.”

“And you decided to make certain nobody could expect those things?”

His jaw тιԍнтened.

“I decided to tell the truth.”

“No, Mr. Boon. You decided to make this place so unpleasant that nobody would stay long enough to discover whether you were telling the truth.”

Jed turned.

For a moment, the scar across his cheek seemed to pull тιԍнтer.

Then he walked outside without another word.

That evening, Martha noticed something strange.

The cabin had only one proper bed, but there were two quilts folded neatly on the cot. One was faded blue, with tiny embroidered flowers along the edge.

It was much too delicate for a man like Jed.

She lifted it carefully.

Beneath it lay a small wooden box.

Martha opened the lid.

Inside was a child’s wooden horse, a faded ribbon, and a pH๏τograph of a young woman holding a little boy.

The woman had bright eyes and a gentle smile.

The boy was perhaps five years old.

On the back, someone had written:

For Jed, so he never forgets what happiness looks like.

Martha closed the box.

When Jed returned, he found her standing beside the cot.

His face changed immediately.

“Put that down.”

“I wasn’t going through your things.”

“Then don’t touch them.”

Martha carefully placed the box back where she had found it.

“I’m sorry.”

He stared at the pH๏τograph for a long moment.

“My wife,” he finally said. “Her name was Eleanor. The boy was Thomas.”

Martha waited.

“They died six winters ago.”

The words came out flat, as though he had repeated them so many times that they no longer belonged to him.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Don’t be. You didn’t know them.”

He took the box and returned it to the shelf.

Then he did something Martha hadn’t expected.

He placed a plate of food beside her.

“Eat.”

It wasn’t an apology.

But it was the first meal he had ever served her.

Over the next few days, the cabin began to change.

Martha repaired a torn curtain, scrubbed the table, and sorted the supplies. She discovered that Jed owned enough flour to last a month but had nearly run out of salt. His pantry contained dried beans, smoked meat, and three jars of preserves.

She also discovered that he had been living almost entirely on coffee and whatever he could cook in one pan.

“You’re going to ruin your stomach,” she told him.

“It has survived worse.”

“That doesn’t mean it deserves punishment.”

She began making proper meals.

Jed complained about the noise of the pots, the smell of onions, and the fact that she moved his tools.

But every evening, his plate was empty.

On the ninth morning, Martha found a folded newspaper beneath a stack of firewood.

It contained the original advertisement for a bride.

She read it twice.

Wanted: A capable woman willing to share the life of a mountain homesteader. A secure home, honest work, and companionship offered.

She looked toward Jed, who was chopping wood outside.

“Mr. Boon?”

“What?”

“Did you write this?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

He stopped chopping.

“My sister.”

Martha frowned.

“You have a sister?”

“Had.”

The axe came down again.

“She died last spring. Fever.”

Martha looked at the advertisement.

“She placed it for you?”

“She believed I needed someone in this house.”

“And you agreed?”

“I thought if I married, people would stop asking why I lived like a ᴅᴇᴀᴅ man.”

Martha folded the paper.

“That’s a poor reason to marry anyone.”

Jed looked at her.

For a few seconds, she thought he might tell her to pack her trunk.

Instead, he returned to chopping wood.

That afternoon, Martha found a small envelope beneath her carpet bag.

It contained a letter from the woman who had arranged the marriage.

The handwriting was hurried.

Mrs. Higgins,

There is something you must know about Mr. Boon before you decide whether to remain. The three women before you were not simply frightened by the cabin or the mountain. Each was approached by a man in Bitter Creek who offered to pay her to leave.

I believe someone is trying to make certain Jedodiah Boon never marries.

Martha read the letter again.

At the bottom was one final sentence.

If you discover why, do not confront him until you know whom he has trusted.

She folded the letter and slipped it into her apron.

Outside, Jed was staring toward the valley.

A rider had appeared on the trail.

And when the stranger dismounted, Jed’s face became colder than the winter around them.

“Stay inside, Martha,” he ordered.

But Martha had already recognized the man’s coat.

It belonged to the stagecoach driver who had brought her to Bitter Creek.

And he was carrying a document with Jed’s name written across the front.