Christ. "And you quit."
"Left." The distinction matters to her. "Compassion fatigue is the clinical term. Means you've spent so long absorbing everyone else's worst days that your body starts shutting down the part of you that can feel it."
She says it flat. Practiced. Probably the same explanation she gave her supervisor, her family, whoever asked.
"Is that what happened?"
Brown eyes lift to mine. For a second, her face is completely open, and what I see there makes me want to put my fist through the table. She's hollowed out. Running on nothing.
"Something like that."
The silence stretches. Wind pushes against the windows. Down by the creek, an owl calls twice.
"One month."
Her brow furrows. "What?"
"The ad said one month. Room and board, help with the property." Standing, I move to the sink so I've got something to do with my hands besides grip the edge of the table. "The cabin's paid for. You drove fourteen hours. And I need help with this place more than my pride wants to admit."
"You're offering me the fake job."
"I'm offering you a real one. The cabins need work before winter. Linens washed, wood chopped, repairs I've been putting off. You do that, you get cabin six, meals, solitude. No strings."
"And the mail-order bride part?"
"We pretend that never happened."
She studies me. Not with suspicion exactly. More like she's running triage, assessing the situation the way a nurse would assess a patient. What's the damage. What's the risk. What's the treatment plan.
"One month. I'm not..." She straightens in the chair. The scrub top shifts across her chest. "I'm not here for whatever your family thinks you need. This is work. That's it."
"I don't need my family's help finding a woman." Probably should've said that with more conviction. Probably shouldn't be noticing the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder.
"Then we understand each other." She stands. Sways. Catches the edge of the table.
Two steps and my hand is on her elbow. Warm skin under my palm. She sucks in a breath, and that close I catch her scent again. Vanilla. Clean underneath, like soap and something that's just her.
"I'm fine."
"You're dead on your feet." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Let me walk you to the cabin."
"I can find it."
"Carmen."
Her name does something when I say it. Rolls off my tongue heavier than it should. She must hear it too because her lips part and her eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up.
"Fine."
Cabin six is at the end of the row, closest to the creek. Clean. Quiet. Small porch with a rocking chair. Whoever posted that ad got one thing right. I unlock the door, turn on the lamp, check the woodstove.
"There's firewood stacked by the south wall. Extra blankets in the closet." Stepping back toward the door, I put distance between us because the cabin is small and she smells too good for a woman who just drove fourteen hours. "Kitchen's open at seven. Coffee's always on."
"Owen."
The sound of my name in her mouth stops me cold. Low, tired, a little raspy.
"Thank you. For the soup."
