Paige Adulsa Thomas.
I know, Mama. I know.
Except I don't, really. Because nothing in Mama's handbook of caution prepared me for a man who shakes after he's done taking care of you. Not during. After. Like the fear only caught up once the danger passed.
That's not a man who doesn't care. That's a man who cares so much it scares him.
Wild mustang. Patience.
But patience has never been my strong suit, which is why, four hours later, I'm on the northeast road with a foil pan of elk chili wedged in a saddlebag and Serenity huffing her disapproval at every pothole.
"Hush. We're being neighborly."
Serenity blows air through her nostrils. Translation, we’re being foolish, and you know it.
"Noted. Keep walking."
The light goes green under the firs. His cabin appears all at once, tucked into the timber. Truck out front. Mill tarped. Axes racked. Whetstone on a stump with the rag folded beside it.
Everything squared away. Everything in its place. The man builds order around himself the way other people build walls. Same purpose. Just neater.
His boots are on the porch. The door's open behind the screen.
I tie Serenity, pull the foil pan out, and knock on the frame.
Footsteps. Then the screen pushes open, and there he is.
Freshly showered. Hair damp, pushed back off his forehead. Beard darker from the water. Bare feet. Gray Henley with the sleeves shoved up his forearms.
My train of thought derails, flips, and catches fire.
"Something wrong?" he asks.
"Yes. You've been eating out of cans."
Those dark eyes drop to the pan. Come back up. Land on my bandage and hold there.
"Six stitches," I tell him, because he's doing the math and I'd rather he have the number. "Deb says thank you to whoever made me come in."
"Six."
"If you say I told you so, I'm taking this chili home."
He doesn't say it. He opens the screen wider and steps back, and I'm inside before he can rethink the invitation.
One big room. Woodstove. A loft over the back. Table with two chairs that some optimist put in here believing a man like this would use them for company. Bed made so tight a coin would bounce off it.
And everywhere, on every flat surface, wood.
Not lumber. Shapes. A block half turned into something with wings sitting on the windowsill. A bowl the size of my palm with walls thin as paper. Curls of shaving swept into a coffee can by the stove. Chisels in a canvas roll, laid out by size, blades old and well-oiled.
The chili goes on the table. The bowl goes in my hand.
Behind me, the room gets very quiet.
It's black walnut. The grain runs through it in a current, and whoever carved it followed where the wood wanted to go instead of forcing it. My thumb fits the inside curve.
"Aiden." I hold it toward the window. The walnut goes red at the thin edges, light bleeding through. "You made this."
