If she had possessed the strength, she might have laughed. Or burst into tears. Or demanded to know whether the man had lost his mind.
Instead, she could only stare at him through snow-covered lashes, too bewildered to protest, as he carried her up the ridge toward a secluded cabin tucked between towering fir trees.
His name, she would discover later, was Elias Boone.
The cabin stood in a clearing nearly swallowed by winter, its thick spruce logs sealed against the bitter cold. Smoke drifted from the chimney into the heavy gray sky. There was something lonely and unyielding about the place, much like the man carrying her.
He shouldered the door open, still holding Ruth in his arms. A wave of warmth greeted her, followed by the unmistakable scent of venison stew, burning pine, iron, leather, and soap. Everything about the place spoke of hard work and a life built around survival. Elias lowered her gently into a ladder-back chair beside the fireplace before kneeling to remove her frozen boots.
“You shouldn’t have to,” Ruth whispered, embarrassment creeping into her voice.
“Neither should you let your feet freeze until they’re black,” he replied.
His straightforward manner should have unsettled her. Instead, it brought her an unexpected sense of security. Without another word, he wrapped wool blankets around her shoulders, moved the kettle closer to the flames, and fed the fire until it crackled fiercely.
As the room brightened, Ruth began noticing the details: a narrow bed, a wooden table, shelves lined with preserves, sacks of beans and flour, hunting traps against the wall, and a worn Bible resting on the mantel. A curtain separated what appeared to be a small adjoining room.
