Winter comes suddenly in the mountains. In the space of a single night the landscape is white with snow. Yesterday in a certain thicket where I drenched my foot in six inches of rain water, today there is only ice.

I adapt easily to the change, walking a ten mile stretch of swift running river to check my beaver traps, unaffected by the cold. On the way, I keep my eyes peeled as always for sign. I move stealthily, careful to break up my outline against the snow by keeping near the bottom of the granite cliff that runs along the river.

While walking I pass trees with fresh scrapes. I consider the larder back home, and the long months we have ahead of us. It’s true we have plenty of food, but it still wouldn’t hurt to kill another deer this early in the season. They’re at their fattest now, before the lean months settle in. And I can use that fat, along with everything else the animal provides. Meat, hide, sinew, bones, none of it goes to waste. Not in my cabin.

I mark the deer trails, scope out some good vantage points for a hunt. I note a channel where deer might funnel through, providing an easy shot. I’ll return tomorrow morning, I decide, and stake it out.

I stay out all day and return late in the afternoon. I’m weary, and I’m just starting to feel the cold. Rather than returning to the cabin, though, I go the stable to tend the hides.

Inside the stable is dark and fairly warm with a little potbelly stove giving off heat. It’s a well insulated building, even better insulated than my own cabin at the moment, as I took time to chink these logs first. The tanning solution has to be kept somewhat warm for the process to work, so the hides together with the horse and chickens will enjoy a cozy winter.

Only after I’ve finished my chores in the stable do I return to the cabin. My eyes are greeted by the back view of a woman in a red dress bent over the fire, and somehow the sight knocks a bit of the wind out of me.

I’d forgotten, I realize, tensing as I close the door after me.

I’d forgotten why I left.

With stiff movements I make my way to the fireplace, removing my outer layer of clothing and hanging it to dry on hooked nails on the wall. Though I do my best not to stare at the Squirrel, I am incapable of ignoring her presence. No matter where I look, she’s right there, curls bouncing softly in the firelight, her womanly figure accentuated by the cut of her dark crimson gown.

But it’s not just her feminine charms that draw my gaze to her. I’m too experienced a woodsman not to notice her movements are off.

She’s struggling to serve my meal. She’s not using her right arm.

“You’re hurt.”

The Squirrel tenses. I move to take the bowl from her. She clings to it a second longer than she should before surrendering it to me. I set it aside, empty.

“What happened?”

“There was ice on the trail near the creek,” she answers softly. “I slipped.”

“Sit down.”

“I’ll get your dinner firs—”

“Sit down.”

My tone leaves no room for argument and the Squirrel obeys. Gut tense, I pull back her sleeve to reveal a clumsy wrap made from leftover dress fabric. I unwind it to view an ugly bruise and a very obviously broken arm.

I test the injured site with careful fingers to feel the break. Her body jerks away from me reflexively; the Squirrel’s left hand flies to her mouth and she screams into it.

“Easy,” I pull her back gently. Her shaking and the sound of her muffled screams are distracting, and though I should be hardened to such a scene, my heart thrums wildly with anxiety for her. Still, I do my best to assess the situation quickly with my fingers.

“Both bones are broken. I have no experience treating an injury like this. We’ll have to go to town for the doctor.”

“No!” she pulls her hand away, and the sound of her voice raised at me for the first time is startling. Catching herself, she lowers her tone to one I’m more used to. “I can’t leave.”

“Then I’ll bring—”

“No doctors. No one else. Please,” she stares at me with her big eyes, and instead of pain, there is painted only terror. “No one must know I’m here.”

Because of him, I realize. Her husband.

I feel my fist clench at my side.

Is she still so afraid of that man?

I look at her arm again. I can try and fix the break myself. But there’s no guarantee it will be successful. I might end up hurting her worse. What’s more, I could potentially maim her for life. She understands this, right?

Her eyes tell me she knows the risks. And still she is adamant.

“No one,” she says through clenched teeth.

I steel my resolve and rise from my seat.

“Let me get you a drink.”

Leaving her with a bottle of whiskey, I go to the woodshed to prepare kindling for a splint. By the time I return with the sanded wood and make more bandages from the scraps of her dress, she’s downed half the bottle and lies with her face on the table.

“You’re going to have to restrain yourself, Squirrel,” I tell her as I take my seat beside her, and she turns her head and looks up at me from where she lies.

“Who’s Squirrel?”

“You,” I answer stiffly, a little flustered to be caught using my nickname for her.

“Ha,” she answers.

“You don’t have a name for me?” I ask, finding myself somewhat disarmed by her wounded, inebriated state and our general proximity. Though I don’t like the situation, it doesn’t feel bad, having a conversation with the Squirrel. 

She turns her face back to the table, her little ears bright red with alcohol.

“Not really,” she murmurs. “The Man. That’s how I think of you.”

I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.

“The Man is back,” she continues, slurring her words. “The Man is hungry. The Man is sleeping. Like that…”

“Rand.”

She turns her head to look up at me once again.

“My name is Rand.”

I wait a moment for her to respond. She does not. I swallow. Quickly, I change the subject.

“I think it will be better to cut your sleeve first. I need to be able to see your whole arm.”

Two fat tears slip out of her eyes, and I feel a pang of guilt. I guess the thought hurts her. She only completed the dress a day ago, and she worked so hard on it. Of course she does not want to destroy it.

I swallow again.

“I suppose I could take it off. If we’re very careful.”

She nods, tears still filling her eyes. Setting down the scissors, I rise and go behind her.

I feel a flutter of nerves as I unfasten the first button at the nape of her neck. But what insane thoughts of arousal filled my mind at the act of undressing the Squirrel fade in an instant when I view the scars that crisscross her upper back.

Her thin linen chemise reveals them plainly, dozens of scars. A hundred of them. My stomach is in knots as I slip the gown from her uninjured arm to reveal even more.

“Did he do this to you?” I ask between clenched teeth. Her husband?

“Huh?” She tips her head back and fixes me with a glassy-eyed stare.

I leave my questions for now and help pull her broken arm through her sleeve. She moans a little with pain, but the fabric is loose enough and she makes it through alright.

Forgetting her scars for the time being, I focus my attention on her bruised forearm. I retake my seat beside her and position myself to do what must be done.

“I’m going to set the arm now. You can’t move, Squirrel. Do you hear me? No matter what.”

“Just get it over with,” she murmurs, face planted once again atop the table. 

I start to move her arm. She screams into the wood, but she doesn’t move. Her whole body is shaking. So is mine. Then abruptly, she stops shaking and goes quiet. She’s fainted, I realize. A mercy.

With her unconscious, the weight of pressure dissipates, and I’m able to work quickly, laying the bones in place, securing them with a splint and a carefully wound bandage, praying all the while to God I’m doing it right. If this break doesn’t heal properly and she ends up permanently damaged…

I create a sling for her, and with more careful maneuvering, situate it around her neck. Then I rise and stoop to pull her unconscious form into my arms, and carry her over to her bed.

She’s so small. And yet this little body has already endured so much. Probably, I think as I squat at her bedside, gently brushing the thick, rope-like scar that sticks out from the top of her shoulder, she’s already endured more than I could ever imagine…

I want another look at her back. I want to count the lines that man left in my Squirrel’s body.

So I can pay him back double.