PART 2: THE HOUSE WHERE THE PAST STILL LIVED

I woke before sunrise.

Habit.

For seven years, I had risen before the light, fed the fire, checked the animals, and prepared for whatever the mountain intended to throw at me.

But that morning, I woke beneath a clean blanket in the back room of a mercantile.

For a few seconds, I did not recognize the ceiling.

Then I heard a small voice.

“Are you awake?”

I turned my head.

Lilly stood in the doorway wearing a nightdress and holding her wooden horse.

“Yes.”

She came closer.

“Did you sleep?”

“A little.”

“Did you dream?”

I stared at her.

Children asked questions adults had learned to avoid.

“Sometimes.”

“Was it a good dream?”

“No.”

She nodded.

“Sometimes mine are bad too.”

She climbed onto the chair opposite me.

“What do you dream about?”

I looked at the window.

Snow covered everything.

“I dream about people I miss.”

Lilly looked down at her horse.

“I dream about Papa.”

I swallowed.

“Do you?”

She nodded.

“Sometimes I dream he’s fixing my horse. Then I wake up, and it still has a broken leg.”

I looked at the toy.

“May I see it?”

She handed it to me.

I turned it over in my hands.

The break was clean, but the wood around it had splintered.

“Your father used pine?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s a soft wood.”

She watched my fingers.

“Can you fix it?”

“I think so.”

Her face brightened.

“Really?”

“If your mother agrees.”

“She will.”

A voice came from the stairs.

“I heard that.”

Sadie appeared carrying a cup of coffee.

She had changed into a brown wool dress, and her chestnut hair was pinned up again.

“You’re awake early,” she said.

“So are you.”

“I own a store. It doesn’t run itself.”

She placed the coffee beside me.

Then she noticed the horse in my hands.

“Lilly.”

“What?”

“You were supposed to let him rest.”

“He said he could fix it.”

I looked at Sadie.

“I said I thought I could.”

She considered the broken toy.

“Only if you don’t strain your arm.”

“I can manage.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

“And I managed.”

She sighed.

“Men.”

I took a sip of coffee.

It was strong.

Very strong.

Exactly how I liked it.

I looked at her.

“Good coffee.”

“Thank you.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From the supplier in Denver.”

“Expensive.”

“Everything good is.”

I almost smiled.

Again.

The storm had weakened overnight, but the road remained buried beneath deep snow.

Sadie served breakfast.

Afterward, I insisted on checking my horse.

She gave me another lecture about my arm.

I ignored most of it.

My mare, Brindle, stood comfortably in the stable, covered with a thick blanket.

The stable boy had fed her hay and water.

I thanked him.

Then I returned to the mercantile.

Sadie was arranging goods behind the counter.

“I’ll leave once the road is passable,” I told her.

She nodded.

“Your sled trace is ready.”

I picked it up.

She had wrapped the repaired section in oiled leather to protect it from the snow.

“Three dollars,” she said.

“I paid yesterday.”

“Then we’re even.”

I examined the work again.

“You could charge more.”

“I charge what I believe the work is worth.”

“Most people charge whatever they think they can get.”

“Most people aren’t worth listening to.”

I looked at her.

She smiled faintly.

It was the first time I had seen her smile without trying to hide it.

For a moment, I understood why people might come into the store simply to speak with her.

Then Lilly appeared.

“Are you leaving?”

I nodded.

“When the road opens.”

She looked disappointed.

I pretended not to notice.

“Your horse will be ready tomorrow.”

Her eyes widened.

“You’ll fix it?”

“I said I would.”

She ran toward her mother.

“Mama! He’s coming back!”

Sadie looked at me.

I shifted the repaired trace in my hands.

“I said the horse would be ready.”

She folded her arms.

“Of course.”

I left before she could say anything else.

The ride back to my cabin took nearly three hours.

The snow had swallowed parts of the trail, and Brindle struggled through the drifts.

By the time I reached the clearing, the afternoon light was fading.

My cabin stood beneath a ridge of dark pines.

Smoke had long since stopped rising from its chimney.

I dismounted.

The place was exactly as I had left it.

A single-story log house.

A woodpile.

A small stable.

And behind the cabin, beneath the old pine tree, two graves.

I looked at them.

Mara Cross.

Caleb Cross.

My wife had been twenty-nine when the fever took her.

Our boy had been six.

Seven years had passed.

Seven winters.

Seven summers.

And I still couldn’t walk past their graves without feeling as though I had left them yesterday.

I removed my gloves and brushed snow from the headstones.

“Road’s bad,” I murmured.

I didn’t know why I spoke.

Perhaps because silence had become too heavy.

“Might stay in town another night if the storm returns.”

The words sounded foolish.

Nobody answered.

I entered the cabin.

The fire had burned out, leaving a bed of gray ash in the stove.

I lit it.

Then I removed my coat.

The leather pouch was still inside the lining.

I took out Caleb’s wooden horse.

For a long time, I held it in my hands.

I remembered the day he had made it.

He had been sitting on the floor beside my workbench, tongue sticking out slightly as he concentrated on a piece of pine.

“Papa, look.”

He had held up the little horse.

It was crooked.

The legs were uneven.

The head was too large.

But he had looked so proud that I had told him it was the finest horse in Colorado.

Mara had laughed.

“You’ll spoil him,” she said.

“He deserves it.”

Caleb had run around the cabin holding the horse above his head.

Then he had climbed into my lap.

“Will you keep it?”

“Always.”

I had kept my promise.

Even when everything else had been taken.

I placed the horse on the table.

Then I walked toward the small room at the end of the hallway.

Caleb’s room.

I stopped outside the door.

I had not entered it in months.

The room was still exactly as he had left it.

A little bed.

A wooden chest.

A shelf with two books.

A small coat hanging from a peg.

I opened the door.

Dust covered the floor.

The quilt lay folded at the foot of the bed.

A pair of little boots sat beside the wall.

I stared at them.

I could still see him standing there, struggling to pull them on.

“Papa, hurry!”

I closed my eyes.

The fever had begun in the spring.

At first, Mara complained of a headache.

Then she developed chills.

I had gone into town for the doctor, but the roads were already turning muddy, and the river had risen.

By the time I returned, she was burning with fever.

I did everything I could.

Cold cloths.

Water.

Herbs.

Every remedy I knew.

The doctor arrived too late.

Mara died on a Thursday morning.

Caleb lasted three more days.

He had been so frightened.

I remembered holding him against my chest, listening to his breathing grow weaker.

“Papa?”

“I’m here, son.”

“Don’t go.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

I had kissed his forehead.

“I promise.”

He died before dawn.

And I had buried them both beneath the pine tree.

Afterward, I could not bear to sleep in the house.

I moved to the back room.

I stopped using the table where Mara had cooked.

I stopped opening the windows in Caleb’s room.

And I carried the wooden horse inside my coat.

I had told myself that if I let it out of my sight, I would lose the last piece of him.

Now, standing in the doorway, I wondered whether I had been keeping his memory alive or keeping myself trapped inside the day he died.

I closed the door.

Not because I had found an answer.

Because I wasn’t ready.

That evening, I repaired the harness, cleaned my rifle, and prepared the sled for the next supply run.

But my thoughts kept returning to Oak Haven.

To the woman with warm brown eyes.

To the little girl with the broken horse.

And to the words Sadie had spoken.

You don’t have to pretend he never existed.

I had spent seven years believing that remembering was the same as suffering.

Perhaps I had been wrong.

The next morning, I loaded a sack of flour, a small tin of coffee, and several pieces of cured meat onto the sled.

Then I added the wooden horse Lilly had given me.

I was going to repair it.

I told myself it was only because I had promised.

Nothing more.

***

Sadie was carrying a heavy crate when I entered the mercantile.

She had one end balanced against her hip and the other supported by a small wooden trolley.

I watched her struggle for a moment.

Then I set down my supplies.

“Need help?”

She turned.

For a second, surprise crossed her face.

Then she looked at the crate.

“Can you lift it?”

“Yes.”

“Without tearing your bandage?”

“I’ll try.”

She stepped aside.

I lifted the crate onto the counter.

It was heavier than it looked.

“What is it?”

“Canned goods.”

“Who ordered so much?”

“I did.”

“For the store?”

“For the store.”

I glanced at the shelves.

“You expecting an army?”

“Winter lasts longer than people think.”

I nodded.

She was right.

I had learned that lesson years ago.

“Your arm?”

“Fine.”

She gave me a look.

I pulled back my sleeve.

The bandage was clean.

“See?”

“Good.”

She returned to the counter.

Then her eyes moved toward the object in my hand.

“Is that…?”

I placed Lilly’s broken horse on the counter.

“Thought I’d see what I could do.”

Sadie’s expression softened.

“She’ll be delighted.”

I sat at the workbench.

The repair took time.

I had to remove the old glue, smooth the splintered wood, and carve a replacement leg from a piece of pine.

Lilly watched every movement.

“Does it hurt?”

I looked at the horse.

“No.”

“I meant your arm.”

“A little.”

“Why don’t you stop?”

“Because I’m almost finished.”

She nodded.

Then she sat beside me.

“Did your boy like horses?”

I paused.

“Yes.”

“Did he have a real one?”

“No. He wanted one.”

“Why didn’t you buy him one?”

I looked at the small wooden horse.

“Because I thought there would always be time.”

Lilly considered that.

Then she said, “Sometimes there isn’t.”

I looked at her.

Her expression was serious.

She had understood more than I expected.

“No,” I said quietly. “Sometimes there isn’t.”

Sadie came around the counter.

“Lilly, why don’t you help me sort the buttons?”

The girl obeyed.

I finished the repair and handed the horse to her.

She examined it carefully.

One leg was new, but it fit well.

“It’s better!”

“It’s sturdy.”

She hugged it.

“Thank you, Mr. Cross.”

I nodded.

Then she surprised me.

She leaned forward and wrapped her little arms around my neck.

It was a brief hug.

A child’s simple expression of gratitude.

But my body went rigid.

I had not been hugged by a child in seven years.

I didn’t know what to do.

Then I carefully placed one hand against her back.

Just for a moment.

She pulled away.

“Now he can run again!”

I looked at the toy.

“Yes,” I said.

“He can.”

Sadie watched us from behind the counter.

Her expression was difficult to read.

I turned toward the door.

“Gideon?”

I stopped.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For fixing the horse?”

“For coming back.”

I looked at her.

She held my gaze.

I nodded once.

Then I left.

***

I returned the following day.

And the day after that.

At first, I told myself it was because I needed supplies.

Then because the sled trace needed another adjustment.

Then because the weather had made the mountain road difficult.

Eventually, I stopped inventing reasons.

I came because Lilly expected me.

And because Sadie always had coffee ready.

The town noticed.

Of course it did.

Oak Haven had very little to discuss during winter except the weather, the price of flour, and other people’s business.

A man who had lived alone in the mountains for seven years suddenly visiting a widow’s store became the most interesting subject in town.

One afternoon, I heard two men speaking near the feed counter.

“She’s making a mistake,” one said.

“Sadie?”

“Who else?”

“Cross hasn’t harmed anyone.”

“He doesn’t speak to people. Doesn’t attend church. Looks like he hasn’t washed in a month.”

I glanced down at my coat.

It was clean.

Mostly.

The other man lowered his voice.

“And the child? She ought to be careful.”

I turned.

Both men fell silent.

“Something you want to say?”

The older one swallowed.

“Nothing, Cross.”

“Then keep it that way.”

I walked toward the counter.

Sadie had heard everything.

She didn’t look up.

“Don’t waste your breath on them,” she said.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

She handed me a sack of coffee.

Then she added, “They’ve been telling me how to raise my daughter since Thomas died.”

I looked at her.

“What do they know?”

“Very little.”

She tied the sack.

“They believe a woman should be grateful for whatever help a man offers. They believe a widow shouldn’t have opinions about business. And they believe a little girl needs someone to tell her what she can and cannot become.”

I glanced toward Lilly.

She was arranging buttons by color.

“Sounds like they have too much time.”

Sadie smiled.

“That’s what I’ve been saying.”

For a moment, I watched her.

She was strong.

Not because she had never been hurt.

Because she had been hurt and had continued anyway.

I understood that kind of strength.

Perhaps that was why I kept coming back.

Before I left that afternoon, she placed a small parcel on the counter.

“What’s this?”

“Bread.”

“I didn’t order bread.”

“I know.”

“I can pay.”

“I didn’t ask for money.”

I looked at her.

She folded her arms.

“You can argue with me tomorrow. Today, take the bread.”

I took it.

Outside, the snow had begun again.

I placed the parcel inside my coat.

Beside the little wooden horse.

And for the first time, I noticed that the inside of my coat no longer felt quite so heavy.