eyebrow.
Rosalie pointed toward the cabin.
He shook his head.
She pointed again.
He folded his arms.
She mimicked his collapsed posture from the night before with exaggerated cruelty.
His mouth twitched.
Rosalie nearly smiled.
Then he pointed toward the woodpile.
She pointed toward his ear.
He pointed toward the cattle.
She pointed toward the cabin.
Finally he surrendered.
Inside, he wrote:
You are bossy.
Rosalie answered:
You are alive.
He considered that.
Fair.
Something between them had changed.
Not love.
Not yet.
But the careful distance of strangers had narrowed.
Rosalie began sitting across from him at night instead of retreating immediately to the bedroom.
Gideon taught her a handful of signs he had invented over the years for ranch work.
Food.
Horse.
Danger.
Snow.
Enough.
Thank you.
Rosalie taught him to read her lips more clearly by facing the light.
On the second evening she said slowly, “Rosalie.”
