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tainting the sweetness of the connection. A woman’s body
     alone had never been enough. Though now, looking at Merry, he missed that intimate
     human contact in a way he’d long forgotten.
    Rob had lost the thread of their conversation. Better say something deep, to make
     his staring look pensive, not creepy.
    “I guess there’s just something about it, out here,” he managed. “Something stark
     that we hope will strip away the clutter and help us see ourselves in some new way.”
Not bad.
Adequately philosophical.
    “I think part of why I’m here is because I got to this crossroads,” Merry said, looking
     to the window, the mountains. “My mom died last year, then I went through some other
     changes. I don’t even think I’m looking to alter my path. I just needed some experience
     that’d knock me sideways, so maybe when I get back to my everyday life, I’ll have
     a new perspective.” She shrugged, meeting his eyes. “I dunno. Maybe I just needed
     a vacation.”
    “Sorry about your mum.”
    Another smile, a sad one. “Me, too. She packed a hell of a lot into sixty-three years,
     at least . . . Maybe that’s why I’m here. So I won’t look back when I’m her age and
     realize I didn’t have enough adventures. So thank you—for being part of the one where
     I gave myself dysentery in Scotland.”
    “I’m sure it’s not dysentery.” He stood. “I’ll take your pack to the bedroom and change
     the sheets, in case you fancy a nap.”
    “Where will you sleep tonight?”
    He nodded to the rocker. “Where you are, I imagine.”
    She frowned. “Are you sure?”
    “I am. Nice and warm in here.” He pictured this charming girl lugging that heavy pack
     up and down the hills for weeks on end. If there was indeed a badass in this cottage,
     it wasn’t Rob. The thought of her enjoying his bed after all those nights of camping
     gave him a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time—a selfless pleasure. And rarer
     still, the sense that he had something of value to offer another person. Something
     to give, when he’d grown so accustomed to parasitism. “I’m sure you’re eager for a
     mattress after two weeks in the wild.”
    “Only if you insist.”
    “I suppose I do,” Rob said, hefting her pack and carrying it into his tiny bedroom.
     He gave the space a quick scan, wondering what another person would make of it.
    Rather Spartan,
he decided, studying the small bed tucked in the warmest corner. Dresser, oil lamp,
     trunk. From the latter he collected fresh linens, shoving the rumpled ones into his
     big canvas sack. In the summer he often scrubbed his laundry in the river and let
     it dry in the sun, but come autumn and winter he saved it up and made a stop at the
     village cleaner’s.
    He tossed the thickest of his wool blankets across the bed, and the toe of his shoe
     nudged the cardboard box hiding just under the frame. Face burning in an instant,
     he gave it a kick, sending it deep into the dusty shadows.
    Even out here, a man still had his secrets.

Chapter Four
    Merry woke in the darkness, tipped from dreams into panic in half a breath. Her body
     settled as she remembered where on earth she was.
    Rob’s bedroom was windowless, but she guessed it was morning. His bedclothes felt
     impossibly cozy after so many dawns accompanied by stiff muscles. The blanket was
     heavy Scottish wool, the pillowcase and sheets flannel, worn and soft. She curled
     the layers around her, his no-frills mattress practically a cloud after ten days with
     only a sleeping pad between her and the cold, hard ground.
    The second her eyes shut, her sense of smell took over.
Rob.
How strange that she’d only exchanged the most cursory and clinical contact with him,
     yet his scent could strike her as so shockingly familiar. Could still be the head
     wound talking.
    They’d exchanged few words over supper. She’d detected a warmth in his eyes and voice
     as he’d spoken about this place, but it