Abby planted her hands on her hips and took it in. “So this is where brides come to disappear,” she muttered, not loud enough to be polite, not quiet enough to be hidden. Jonah paused near the door, his head turning just enough for one gray eye to catch hers. “They left because they weren’t built for it,” he said flatly, voice deep and rough like rocks grinding together.
“If you’re smart, you’ll do the same before snow sets in.” Abby’s chest rose and fell hard from the climb, but she managed a snort. “You don’t scare me, Jonah Granger,” she replied. “I’ve lived through worse than cold walls and hard work.” Jonah said nothing more.
He shoved open the heavy door and stepped inside. The cabin smelled of smoke, pine resin, and the faint metallic tang of old iron. Inside, it was exactly what Abby expected: rough-hewn furniture, a wide stone hearth, animal skins thrown over floorboards for warmth. There were no curtains, no softness, no little signs of anyone trying to make beauty where survival was the main language.Jonah dropped her bag by the wall and looked at her like he was reading a list no one else could see. “You’ll cook,” he said. “Mend. Keep the fire. I’ll hunt. Chop. Keep wolves off the door. Don’t expect more than that.” It wasn’t a proposal. It was a division of labor.
Abby lifted her eyebrows. “Well,” she said, voice dry, “isn’t that the kind of romance a woman crosses a continent for.” Jonah’s jaw tightened as he pulled a knife from its sheath and began sharpening it on a stone. The scrape filled the silence, sharp and steady.
Abby waited a beat, long enough to see he wasn’t going to fill the air with anything else, then walked straight to the hearth. “Fire’s low,” she announced. “Either you like breathing, or you enjoy freezing. I’m stoking it.” She gathered logs, split kindling with a small hatchet she’d spotted by the wall, and had the fire crackling within minutes. Heat spread into the room, softening corners, turning the cabin from fortress to something closer to shelter.
