Montana winter wind.
The kind that came down from the high country with teeth in it and made every wall in a cabin confess where it was weak.
Snow hissed against the chinks between the logs.
The stove snapped behind her.
The floorboards under her feet held the cold like iron, even through two pairs of socks.
She had been alone for so long that the cabin had started answering her in small ways.
The stove talked.
The kettle sighed.
The shutters rattled when the wind turned mean.
That night, the porch answered too.
Something heavy struck it.
Not a branch.
Not a loose board.
A body.
Abigail tightened both hands around the rifle and pressed her shoulder to the door.
She told herself she would not open it.
She had told herself that before, and she had meant it.
No strangers after dark.
No voices asking for water.
No men saying they only needed shelter until morning.
No soft-hearted foolishness just because she knew what it felt like to be cold.
A woman alone learned rules or she did not stay alone for long.
Leave a Comment