I pull my chair alongside the Squirrel’s bed and eat the supper she prepared, for now just watching her sleep. Then I rise and begin to simmer two teaspoons of the bitter dried willow bark in water over the fireplace. Fifteen minutes later she begins to stir.

I help her sit up. Then I bring her a cup of tea. She accepts it sullenly.

“It’s bitter,” I tell her. “But it will help with the pain.”

She considers the liquid a moment, then tips it all back, heedless of the temperature. It’s enough to make even me wince.

“Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head. She looks so defeated. I’ve never seen the Squirrel wear such an expression.

I sit with her silently for about twenty minutes. I watch her eyelids grow heavy. She starts to lie back and I rise quickly to help her. She shoots me a sharp look.

“I can do it myself.”

I’m surprised at her rebuke. But not dissuaded.

“Maybe you hate the idea of me touching you. I’m sorry about that. But bear with it for a while.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Her jaw is set stubbornly. So is mine.

“If you dislodge those bones I’ll have to set them all over again,” I point out, and she shrinks a little.

I feel her surrender. She’s got no fight left in her. I help her lie back and situate the blanket over her body.

“Are you warm enough?”

“I’m fine,” she answers, just staring up at the ceiling. I watch her a minute longer as two fat tears squeeze themselves out of the corners of her eyes and run down the sides of her face.

Not knowing what else to do, I leave her to cry…

I wake later than usual to find the Squirrel still sleeping on her back. Her arm is secure in its wrap and its sling.

On the wall my clothing has dried. I slip into the warm woolen sweater and coat.

Outside the sky is bright and the air is crisp. A crust of ice has formed over the top layer of snow, and each step I take crunches loudly.

I stop in the outhouse first then make my way down to the creek with a couple of buckets. The water is still flowing noisily, but soon it’ll be frozen solid. Then we’ll have to get our water from the snow.

Across the creek I spy a fat doe. She steps out of the woods to drink, for now not noticing me. I think of my rifle back at the cabin, and my plans yesterday to go hunting.

There’ll be no hunting today, I think as she spies me and jerks her head up, quickly bounding away into the thick of the trees. Nor for the foreseeable future. Not until the Squirrel’s well enough to be left on her own.

I start back for the cabin, noticing a line of dark clouds on the horizon. Outside the door I meet the Squirrel. She’s dressed only in her thin linen chemise and little shoes as she crunches determinedly to the outhouse without so much as a glance my direction. I watch her go with a pang.

The dress that was supposed to keep her warm, she can’t wear it now. And her shoes…

I make a fire and reheat last night’s dinner for breakfast. The Squirrel isn’t interested. I leave the issue for now.

I spend the day inside, cutting and sewing leather with skilled fingers. I may not be able to make a delicate dress by hand, but I can work with thicker string to make a buckskin coat and a pair of winter boots for the Squirrel.

She spends the day in bed, sitting quietly or sleeping. At intervals I give her more of the bark tea to help manage her pain. She doesn’t ask for food.

Outside, the wind starts, and with it a fierce winter storm. We’ll have several feet of snow by tomorrow, I predict.

Towards evening, I set my work aside to fry up a hash of onions, small potatoes, salt pork and plenty of pepper. I dish up bowls for both of us. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours now since the Squirrel’s last meal, and she needs something in her gut if her body’s going to heal.

She won’t come to the table. I eat my meal alone while she continues silently behind me. It tastes very bland, I think. It’s the first time I’ve had to cook for myself in a long while. Is that why? Or is it just the empty table that leaves the food tasting so stale?

Belly full, I turn my attention back to the Squirrel’s bowl. No good. She needs to eat. I take it up and go to sit at her bedside.

“I don’t want it,” she says when I try to give her a spoon.

“Eat,” I order sternly, and once more her eyes well with tears. Shaking, she accepts a single bite and holds it in her mouth for a long time before she starts to chew. Then she swallows and more tears come.

“You hate me,” she accuses. I sit up, perplexed. Blink at her.

“You’re angry with me. I’m so stupid, so clumsy. There’s no way you’re not angry with me.”

“I’m not angry.”

She won’t look at me. Her whole body shakes with tears.

“Just hit me.”

I continue to stare at her, not understanding.

“Hit me till your satisfied. I can take it.”

I consider the scars on her arms and back, and I feel something inside me turn hard and ice cold.

“No one’s going to hit you.”

She folds in half, broken arm clutched against her stomach. She wails loudly into the blanket. The sound makes my gut clench painfully. Such a human sound. I’m not used to it.

But I am not angry with her. I only hurt for her. For her arm, and for everything else.

“I can’t understand,” she heaves between her sobs. “I don’t understand…”

I remain stiffly in my seat, waiting for her tears to abate. After about twenty minutes, they do. She sits up, her face streaked with tears and snot. Her eyes are bloodshot and there’s blood at the corner of her mouth where she’s bitten her lip.

I move to wipe it automatically, and she jerks away from me, frightened. I hold my position, and her gaze. The Squirrel goes absolutely still.

I reach a little further, and touch the side of her mouth, mopping up the bloody spot with my thumb. She stares at me, breathing through semi-plugged nostrils. I pull a hankie from my pocket for her and after a moment’s hesitation, she blows her nose noisily. I let her keep it in her fist, and I offer her another bite of hash. She accepts it warily and chews, swallowing it down more quickly this time.

“You’re so kind. I can’t understand it at all,” she says. “How are you so kind? Why are you not angry with me?”

“Why should I be angry?”

“I did something so stupid, slipping and breaking my arm like a fool. I’ve inconvenienced you so much. I’m supposed to be helping you but instead I’m just a burden. There’s so much… so much I should be doing.”

“In a blizzard?”

She blinks at me as though not comprehending. I sigh.

“It’s winter. The woodshed is full, our stores are laid up. What’s there to do now but wait out the season?”

“The chinking…”

“I’ll see to that.”

“Cooking.”

“I got along fine before you came here, didn’t I?”

More tears slip from her eyes, and I realize maybe I’ve said the wrong thing. I’m still not used to all this talking, and I don’t know the first thing about comforting a woman. But I know my own mind, at least. And I’m not afraid to tell her exactly what I’m thinking in this moment.

“I want to take care of you,” I say, and the Squirrel’s eyes go wide at my admission. “I would rather take care of you like this for the rest of my life than spend another winter cooped up out here on my own.”

I realize her face has gone scarlet, and it leaves me feeling similarly embarrassed. Was that too direct? But it’s the truth. I can no longer imagine my life without this woman. And so, if she is hurt, I will simply care for her until she is well again.

“You… want me here?”

I exhale sharply through my nostrils.

“I… have not found your company at all… unpleasant. Besides, you…” I feel my fist tighten over her blanket. “You need this place, right? You need… me…”

Her eyes go even wider at my words, and they begin to shimmer. She nods, her lips pressed tightly together as though working to suppress an ugly sob.

I nod, satisfied.

“Then there’s nothing more to discuss. You’ve been a good partner from the first day, Squirrel. You suit me down to the ground. So I don’t mind picking up the slack while you take your time healing up.”

“Heidi.”

I blink at her simple correction, at first not comprehending it. And then I do. And I feel my heartbeat quicken slightly with the revelation.

“Ah,” I answer quietly, seeing this woman with new eyes, somehow. Dressed down in her linen chemise, sling over her right arm and her nut brown hair running in curling waves down her left shoulder, she’s exactly the same as she was a minute ago, and yet, to me, all new.

I’m like a boy again, playing in the woods and coming upon a wonderful secluded glen, or a cave with glowing mushrooms. Everything about this moment is magical and mysterious. I want nothing more than to linger in this space, to explore it and learn it’s every secret.  

The Squirrel’s name is Heidi.