Page 17 of Cowboy Mountain Man

“Are you always this calm?” I ask.

“No.”

I glance up. “When aren’t you?”

“When somebody leaves threats for a woman alone in a house.”

The answer catches me off guard. His voice is quiet, but there’s nothing casual about it.

“I wasn’t alone,” I say.

“No.”

I swallow. “That’s worse, isn’t it?”

His fingers shift beneath mine. “We’re going to find out who it was.”

I finish cleaning the cut and cover it with a bandage. “There.”

He studies my work. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I should let go of his hand. And I do. Eventually.

He stands and goes to the fireplace. I start putting things away. Outside, rain pounds the roof. Wind pushes against the windows with a low, steady moan.

The overhead light flickers. Once. Twice. Then the cabin goes dark.

“Knew that was coming,” he mutters under his breath.

I sit very still. Across the room, Harlan strikes a match. A little flame cups his fingers. He lights the kindling, then reaches for a lantern on the mantel.

“Battery?” I ask.

“Oil.”

He lights it and adjusts the wick. Warm light spreads across the room.

“Well,” I say. “This is aggressively cozy.”

He sets the lantern on the table. “You cold?”

“A little.”

He looks at my sleeves.

“Your clothes are wet.”

“So are yours.”

“I’ve got more.”

“Congratulations.”

He disappears down the hall and returns with a folded stack. “Sweatshirt. Dry socks. Bathroom’s on the left.”

I take them.