The next morning I’m up before dawn. I light the lamp on the table to cast a faint glow about the room. I’m startled at first to see the spot before the fireplace vacant. Then I remember the Squirrel’s bed.

She sleeps so soundly, so comfortably in her quiet corner, I wouldn’t even know she was there. I guess I’ve gotten used to her breathing in the last week or so; I’m hardly even aware of it now.

Satisfied to find her thus, I leave the cabin in a strangely giddy mood and make for the stable to hitch my horse to the wagon. It takes me no time at all to load it up with all the pelts and leather I’ve collected and cured over the long summer, a sizable heap.

I’ve just hopped into the driver’s seat with my rifle across my lap when I hear the cabin door swing open. The Squirrel stands sleepily in the doorway, still wrapped in her soft fur blanket.

“I’ll be back sometime tomorrow,” I say to her, and my voice seems a little stronger than before. “Don’t open the door to anyone. You know how to use a gun?”

The Squirrel nods solemnly. I nod back.

I don’t expect trouble. I’ve already sent those men on their way, and they won’t be back if they know what’s good for them. But if they do come back, the Squirrel knows where the spare rifle’s kept.

She’ll be alright.

“What about—” her soft voice once again has the strangest effect on my heart, causing it to quicken ever so slightly, “breakfast?”

“I have pemmican.”

“Coffee?”

I have a long journey ahead of me, I shouldn’t let myself be delayed. But when I see her standing there in the early morning light, looking back at me with that question, with the faint shade of loneliness in her eyes, it gives me pause.

She’s trying to keep me here, I sense. Even if it’s just for an extra twenty minutes. She doesn’t want me to go.

The thought warms me on this chilly morning. Warms me right down to my toes.

Without a word I climb out of the driver’s seat. Brightening visibly, the Squirrel hurries inside to build the fire. I follow after her for one quick cup of coffee, and close the door behind me…

It’s a long, jarring trip into town with the cart pulled over rough trails. But I know these mountains, and I make my descent slowly but safely.

It’s mid-afternoon when I finally reach town. After so many years of trading here, though I only come once a season, the people recognize me on sight, and clear out of my way.

I hate the smell of town. All the bodies crowded together, all the scents from all the cook fires mingled with the filth of their excrement stinking up the streets. A man can’t get a decent lungful of air in a place like this.

When I think I used to be one of them, living among this rabble without a thought, it baffles me truly.

I do all my trading silently, communicating with my hands and my look what I want and how much. Of course I get a good price for my furs, and I’ve more than enough money to buy all the supplies I need to last the Squirrel and I through the coming winter.

In the streets behind me, I hear the anxious townspeople’s whispers.

“He’s back again. The big silent fella.”

“Does he not speak our language?”

“Doesn’t want to, more like. He’s not here to make friends.”

“I heard he murdered two men and fled to the mountains to escape the law.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least…”

Stoically, I ignore these. They are suspicious of me, and have right to be. I do not begrudge them this, nor their fancies. But I don’t want to linger here and listen to them a second longer than I have to.

Most of my shopping done, I’m making preparations to leave town when I notice a dress in a certain storefront window.

A pretty thing, frilly purple with lace ribbons. It wouldn’t suit the Squirrel at all. But a dress would be something she could use.

Seeing these people walking around, especially the women, I become more certain my Squirrel back home has been wearing a nightgown all this time. And that won’t do, especially in the wintertime. She needs proper clothing, a frock or two, and an apron.

But how does a man like me order such things?

I stand in front of the shop window a long time, just staring at the dress, turning the idea of going inside and speaking with a salesperson over and over. No matter how I picture the encounter, I can’t see it going well. I wouldn’t know what to communicate to them, how to explain my needs or the Squirrel’s size. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. 

After a long time spent in front of the store window, eventually I give up and lead my horse away.

There’s just no way. No way I can buy a dress…

A short while later I leave town, my wagon loaded with provisions. I drive my horse a few miles into the mountains before I finally unhitch her and make camp for the night. Making a meager meal of pemmican and cold water from a nearby stream, I settle down on the hard earth with my hands behind my head to gaze up at the stars that twinkle between the tall black spruce trees.

I miss the Squirrel’s cooking. I miss the light sound of her footfall, her tiny, quiet breaths. Mundane sounds, ordinary. At first they stood out so starkly to me, but after a while they became white noise, like the sound of the distant creek, or the wind outside the cabin walls.

She is fixed now. Just another part of my life. And though I’ve known her only a short while, really, it’s almost hard to remember the way things were without her.

Like this, I suppose as I turn again on the hard ground, seeking out a comfortable position in vain. Very hard and dark. Very lonely and cold.

But there, in her presence, is warmth. There is simple serenity, and comfort.

And I can’t wait to get back to it.

Late the following afternoon I arrive at the cabin, cart laden with large bags of salt, flour, sugar and everything else we were missing.

Hearing the approaching cart, the Squirrel rushes out, her face pink and bright with obvious happiness to see me. It’s not a bad feeling, I think, climbing out of the driver’s seat to unhitch my horse and let her graze. Having someone waiting for you to come home.

We work together unloading the cart, with me giving silent directions to take the various parcels here or there. Among the items I’ve brought from town are four hens in a crate. The Squirrel is positively delighted by the sight, and carries them eagerly into the stable.

While she’s occupied with that, I hurriedly unload the rest of the items, bringing them inside to lay them out carefully on her bed.

Somehow I feel unbelievably nervous as I wait for her to come back to the cabin. When she does her manners are light and breezy, and her smile sends my heart knocking in my chest. But she does not look at the bed.

I help her organize the food items, getting everything stored up exactly the way she wants it, then watch as she busies herself around the stove, serving me a large portion of venison roast with little red skinned potatoes and gravy. She stands beside the table, watching expectantly for my reaction to her meal. I glare at her and indicate to her chair with my eyes. Her cheeks brighten at my invitation and she hurries to get her plate so she can join me.

Now I am satisfied, I think as I dig my fork eagerly into the tender roast and she begins to eat quietly at my side.

Now I’m home.

After a day and a half spent chewing on pemmican, the Squirrel’s dinner tastes especially delicious. And when she brings out a cinnamon roll sweetened with apple preserve for dessert, I think I could eat the whole pan. I don’t, though. I stop myself, and indicate she should have some too. She shakes her head. It’s all for me.

Dinner finished, she clears away the dishes while I work sharpening my tools for work tomorrow.

All the while I keep an eye on her bed, and the parcels I left there, gut screwed up, oddly tense with anticipation. Every time she starts towards the bed I screw up even tighter, only to be let down when she doesn’t notice my gift and gets right on to her next chore. Then at last, when she’s finished her work for the evening and goes to sit down, she spies it.

I watch with a ticklish feeling as she picks up one of the parcels. She looks across the cabin to where I’m sitting with a question in her eyes. I say nothing.

The first package contains twelve skeins of wool yarn and knitting needles. Enough to make a blanket and warm winter socks, and whatever else she needs. Her eyes brighten to see it all and her hands become animated as they count the skeins. Then her eyes travel to the second parcel.

Shyly, she unties the twine and unwraps the brown paper. The sound of her gasp thrills me, and my gut clenches tightly. Folding the paper carefully, setting it aside for future use, she takes up the bolts of fabric I bought her. Once again, she gives me a questioning look.

I clear my throat. “You can make your own dresses and aprons, right?”

“I… can.”

I nod, satisfied. There’s scissors, needles and thread, even buttons there too. Everything she should need. I don’t know her measurements and I wouldn’t know how to talk to a shopkeeper to order a dress, but I could at least do this much.

The squirrel’s eyes are filled with wonder as she views one bolt of fabric in particular, running her hands along the patterned cotton. 

“This color…” she murmurs.

For some reason, I feel heat coming to my ears. It’s really no surprise that I can’t bring myself to answer her. How could I tell her something like that?

That I thought she’d look nice in red…

She surprises me by setting aside her things and rising. She starts to come towards me and my poor gut goes even tighter. She opens her mouth, looks about to speak, then closes it again. Her eyes are swimming with tears.

For some reason, I rise too to stand before her. She lowers her head quickly. Her ears are flaming red.

She’s so small next to me. The top of her head barely reaches the middle of my chest.

“I’ll work hard,” she says, her voice small and affected by emotion. “It may take a while, but, one day I’ll repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

That… somehow, that wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

My palms are hot. I want to reach out to her, to lift her head and force her to look at me. But my arms are frozen. I can neither move nor speak.

Eventually, the Squirrel’s head bows even more deeply, and she hurries back to her bed. I watch her scamper off with the strangest feeling.

Then I turn abruptly, and make my way outside.