The following morning I wake to find the Squirrel sleeping before the cold fireplace, wrapped in her rabbit skin blanket. I stoop momentarily to pull the edge of the cover over her exposed shoulder, and straighten, feeling better, but not completely satisfied.

After my usual mourning routine of tending the furs in the tannin solutions, I take the canning supplies from storage and set them on the table inside the cabin. I bought the jars one year as a sort of experiment, though I didn’t have much luck preserving the woodland fruit. But the Squirrel is clever with food. I feel certain she’ll know what to do with all the raspberries she picked.

I work hard all that day within sight of the cabin at the edge of the woods, falling more trees and stripping them diligently of their bark, sanding them down and notching them all just so. This project is a bit more complex than the construction of a simple dining room chair, requiring more than a single day to complete.

Before I head back to the cabin, I stop in the creek to rinse myself and my clothes of sawdust. It’s not a bath, and it’s not for that woman, either. It’s just uncomfortable, having my whole body pricked with wood chips. I’d do the same even if she wasn’t waiting for me, I tell myself, growing a bit frustrated the longer I consider it.

Feeling cranky for some reason, still damp from my bath, I burst unceremoniously into the cabin. The Squirrel jumps at my entry. Irritated, impatient with her, I wave my arms and she scampers nervously out of my way while I go straight to my chair and seat myself in it heavily.

Looking up, I consider the cabin, sparkling in the evening light that spills from the open door. A golden sunset illuminates every corner of this usually dim space, revealing all the Squirrel’s effort of the last week.

Just before she closes the door, my eyes settle on the shelf at the back of the cabin. It’s crowded with crimson jars of raspberry jam.

At once, I feel ashamed of myself, of my temper. Once again, she’s worked so hard for me, laying up stores that will last us through the winter. But that’s not all.

There’s another bucket I notice beneath the table, this one filled with medium sized green apples. Don’t tell me after canning, she—

A plate appears in front of me then, and my bowl, and my senses are assaulted at once by the dueling scents of stew and fresh, homemade apple pie.

My stomach roars.

Pushing the stew to the side, I go straight for the pie. The first bite melts in my mouth. It’s so delicious I find myself moved nearly to emotion. At my elbow, very hesitantly, the Squirrel sits down with a small helping of stew.

“We’re running out of sugar.”

Her voice, so small and unassuming, nevertheless touches my sensitive ears with a powerful impact. My heart tumbles unexpectedly within me, like a tiny stone through a swift moving stream.

Setting my fork down, I swallow down a little water before I can make myself answer lowly.

“I’ll get some in town.”

“Flour. Coffee. If we…” she silences herself quickly, seeming afraid to have spoken so much. Is she worried I’ll be displeased with her?

“If we what?”

She glances up at me through thick lashes, brown eyes dancing nervously. “If we had a layer, I could make more desserts. You… seem to like desserts…”

She’s not wrong. But a laying hen? I’ve never owned such a thing. Not since coming to the mountains.

I scratch beneath my chin thoughtfully. What kind of desserts need eggs? I’m eager to find out. But a hen only lays a single egg a day. I’d have to get two at least, if the Squirrel’s going to eat too…

The sound of approaching hoof beats jolts me from these thoughts. Riders? Here?

I look immediately to the Squirrel. Her eyes are wide with terror; her whole body’s gone rigid. We both continue to sit absolutely still, listening. A man calls out, the hoof beats slow. Silence.

Then, a knock at the door.

The Squirrel darts frantically from her chair, tucking herself beneath the table behind the apples. Bristling, angry at this intrusion and that my Squirrel should be frightened, I rise on powerful legs and go to the door, taking my rifle down from the wall before opening.

Three men. The eldest, balding and brutish, stands at the front flanked by an escort of two younger men. All of them look tough.

I step outside and shut the door behind me.

“You seen a woman round here?” the bald man opens without greeting. “Pretty thing, young. Curly brown hair, about this high?” I feel something in me harden as I think how accurately his description matches the Squirrel. My face betrays nothing.

“The master’s wife ran away from home about a week ago. He’s got a reward out for her. You know the Philips place?”

I do not answer. The man grows visibly irritated. If not for my size and the rifle in my hand, I think he’d turn violent. But he’s no fool.

“Anyway, if you see a girl like that, bring her back to Greg Philips and he’ll pay you for your trouble. Come on, boys,” he gestures impatiently at the others, and they go back to mount their weary looking horses, riding on through the deepening shadows.

I watch them go until the sound of their hoof beats dies away. Then I turn and let myself back inside the cabin.

I wait a minute, but the Squirrel doesn’t come out from her hiding place. I approach her on heavy footsteps and wait another minute. I squat down.

She’s shaking. Hugging her knees to her chest. Her fingers clench and unclench in the folds of her tattered skirt. Her eyes when they lift to mine are wide and dancing with fear.

“Sorry.”

I blink at her, perplexed by the sentiment. I start to reach for her, thinking for now to help her out from beneath the table, but she squeaks in fright and backs away from me. I retract my hand. Stare at her.

Perhaps my Squirrel is a bit more wild than I thought. 

Slowly, slowly, once more I put my hand out to her. She stares at it as though not sure what she’s meant to do.

“It’s alright,” I hear my voice, still so strange to my ears. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What about… the reward?”

My face hardens. As if I’d ever trade my Squirrel for mere gold.

Still, something about this sudden development troubles me.

“Your husband,” I say, and she winces at the word, recoiling from it. Her eyes squeeze shut and her head turns sharply. The hold she has on her legs grows even tighter, as though she’d like to pull the whole of her body into her chest cavity.

“You ran away from him.”

She does not answer. Doesn’t have to.

My knees creak faintly as I rise. I feel angry. Not with her.

Now I understand why she came to me.

Greg Philips. That’s what they said his name was. What did he do to my Squirrel to make her like that? I think, looking over to the hatchet hanging between two nails on the wall.

And how will I repay him?

The next afternoon, I move in the bed I’ve been constructing these past few days. The Squirrel, hard at work canning apple preserves, jumps at my entry, eyes wide with alarm at first, and then with wonder.

Crafted by hand, held together by large, tightly fitted sticks, like her chair, the bed is small and simple and perfectly suited, in my estimation, to the Squirrel.

She follows me around a bit frantically, tries to help me move the furniture, but I require no assistance. After getting it situated perfectly in the corner of the cabin, I go back outside to fetch the hand-stitched canvas mattress stuffed with dry grass and fragrant pine needles I’ve fastened for her. Laying it atop the bed, I turn to look at her meaningfully.

I don’t need to speak. With this, she understands.

I’m not turning her over to her husband. Not for any reward.

She’s staying right here.

I spend the rest of the day helping the Squirrel can the apples she spent the morning picking, and by evening we have several more jars of preserve lining the shelves. I step back to look at it with a satisfied feeling.

In the past, my winter stores have consisted of dried fruit and meat, and whatever shriveled vegetables I could find around the place. This will be the first winter in as many as I can remember where I’ll be able to enjoy truly delicious food. And all thanks to the Squirrel.

But all this comes at a cost. We’re completely out of sugar now, and she’s scraping the bottom of the barrel of flour to prepare our bread for the evening.

I don’t like the thought of leaving her here alone, especially after that encounter we had the night before. But I feel I must.

It’s time to make a trip into town.