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never hurt you, Little One.”
    I look away, shame filling me as dark memories cloud my head again. “I’m not a child,” I say. Like a confession of my sin.
    “I know.” He puts his finger under my chin and lifts my eyes to his. “I know what happened to you, Rose.”
    My mouth opens to say something, to deny it all, but he cuts me off.
    “Don’t do that, Rose. Rebecca told me about Hunt ‘cause she was worried about you.”
    Just the sound of someone else saying that man’s name aloud makes my whole body shiver. The pain creeps back inside me, the sweet warmth of Luke’s arms fading as the ice fills my heart again.
    I look over to Becca, her small body curled on her pallet, her dark shadowed eyes closed in a fitful sleep. She whimpers and clutches at her blanket and my chest tightens. I start to rise, to go to her, to tell Luke he should comfort her and not me—
    But he takes my face in his hands, his fingers catching in my hair. “Never think you deserved that, Rose. You did the right thing.” His eyes turn hard with anger and pain. “The bastard deserved to die. He deserved worse.”
    I look at him in shock and amazement. He’s in pain. For me.
    Then the strangest thing happens, even stranger than my peace—I reach out to him and bury my face in his chest.
    He isn’t afraid of me. He knows and he isn’t afraid.
    I didn’t even realize it mattered, but the relief that fills me is a rise of my soul, tingling in my fingers and toes.
    He strokes my hair and I don’t pull away. I let him comfort me. I let him give me something I’ve never had from a man’s hands, and lie in wonder at the feeling of the warmth that fills me again. Just for a moment.
    Daylight’s coming and Becca will be awake soon.
     
    *
     
    When I wake up again, Luke’s gone and Becca’s at my side.
    I sit up and mumble something about breakfast, but she takes my arm and says, “No, Rose. Just relax.”
    “You’re the sick one, Becca, not me.” I don’t let my protest sound too strong. I’m enjoying this small gift of rest.
    The things I said last night to her, the hurtful horrible things, they come back to me and make my heart sick. I try to find the words to say, I’m sorry. That I don’t hate her, it’s not her fault. But I can’t. There’s nothing to say that’ll take it all back. 
    “I feel fine,” she says. “Besides, it’s about time you have a turn getting fussed over.”
    I give her a weak smile and she gets up, moving to the hearth to busy herself with something. And it’s like none of what we said happened. 
    That day I slumber off and on, awakening to the sounds of Luke and his boots on the wood floor, of laughter and soft voices, of the crackling of the flames. I imagine Becca and Luke, tucked in each other’s arms. They whisper and look at each other with longing. Luke’s eyes are full of hunger. Full of longing and love.
    I wish it was for me.
    But I know, deep down, Becca deserves it more. Even I know—I feel it in my bones—like I can smell ice in the air and know the snow is about to fall.
    I’ll never be the one to be loved.
     
    *
     
    As the days pass I find myself smiling, more than I can remember smiling in a long time. Like in my other life, Before. When there was green and amber coating the world instead of grey and white. Like when Mamma was alive and young, when Becca and I played in the summer fields, wheat growing as high as my five-year-old head, while Pa and Mamma would harvest the grain. She would chase Becca and me through the stalks ‘til we rolled and giggled and all the dust flew up, then fell like golden snow into our hair.
    Before we moved to the top of this mountain.
    Before.
    And the smiles begin to wipe away the memories. The nightmares fade a little, more and more each day.
    There are days that pass when I barely think of the shadows and ghosts at all. I feel them there, waiting at the edges, but I can pretend. I can block them out and find peace for a moment.
    Most