Dear readers,

I have been largely absent from the fandom lately for personal reasons (Mostly shitty time management skills) but here is a story I wrote before Christmas. Thanks to all the ladies who organized The Age of Edward Contest. Hosting or judging a contest is such a huge undertaking, an I know an event of this size cannot possibly go off without a hitch. Thank you for all your hard work! The selection of stories was phenomenal, and I was hard-pressed to choose my own favorites from the bunch.

Thank you, Ninkita, for always doing such a fine job cleaning up my writing! You are brilliant, beautiful and a wonderful friend. Love you!

I was also very flattered to be asked to beta for two other writers. Anyone who writes knows that the creative process is unique to each person. Being a part of that journey with another author is always exciting and fun! Please check out When Worlds Collide by readerwholic and Ibadat by my friend and favorite beta Ninkita.

Tracks

Date: December 10, 1789

Location: The western edge of the Smoky Mountains, 35 miles southeast of James White's settlement in the Tennessee territory, later known as Knoxville, Tennessee

One shot, straight through the eye. In this failing light, that's luck, not skill. I slide off the paint gelding and draw my skinning knife. I have minutes, maybe half an hour, if I want to make it out of here with my kill and my own hide intact. After such a dry summer, it's been slim pickin's for game all season. Now with winter closing its fist around us, we're all competing for enough meat to survive until spring.

A single shot echoing off these hills is like a lighthouse beacon calling to any Indian within hearing. There's a white man here. Come and get him. Unfortunately for me, these hills are crawling with Indians.

The ground is hard-packed ice beneath the dry leaves and sticks. We haven't had much snowfall yet, but that's about to change. Here and there, patches of dry, crusty snow linger where they've been blown up against rocks and tree trunks. The air feels thick and heavy, the clouds sinking low toward the Appalachians, promising to crush us with the first real blizzard of the season.

I reload my rifle and hang it from my pommel. You don't want to be caught with an empty gun out here on the frontier. I check my revolver, making sure it hangs loose in the holster. If they come for me, I'll be ready.

I roll the buck onto his back and slice through the thick hide from anus to clavicle. I twist, cut, yank and pull the entrails away from the carcass, the mesentery holding the sack of guts together, hot and steaming in the chill December air. The paint snuffles behind me, lipping dry grass at the base of an old oak tree. His stablemate is more skittish, the bay mare's hooves shuffling as the scent of blood permeates the air.

I take a moment to scan the woods around me before continuing. I hear nothing. I see nothing. But that doesn't mean there's nobody out there. The Cherokee hunters are like ghosts, their moccasins making barely a whisper, their bows emitting the smallest creak as they draw an arrow back, the snap-twang of the string your only warning before three inches of flint is lodged in your throat.

I'm tempted to take the meat I need to make it through the week and run, but it's a big buck and the hide will easily fetch a couple dollars in James White's expanding town down by the river. When I factor in the value of so many pounds of fresh meat, the decision is almost a foregone conclusion. I need ammunition, powder, coffee, grain for the horses… the list goes on and on. My purse has been getting pretty lean. An influx of cash will be very welcome. This buck is going to see me through the winter and beyond.

My hands are shaking from cold and nerves, and I tell myself to settle. I need to keep my wits about me. I saw through the last tenacious fibers, drag the hide off and lay it flat, hair down, beside me. Then I get to work with my butcher knife, working the blued steel between the stiffening joints to quarter the carcass. Even if I sell half and dry the rest, I'm looking at enough meat to feed me for a couple months. I couldn't have wished for a finer animal.

I hesitate. It feels a little bit like tossing a bone at a dog to keep it busy, but I know I'm not the only one who is going to be suffering this winter. Maybe a peace offering will keep them off my trail. Taking a length of cord, I tie it around a leg and hoist one of the quarters from an oak branch, letting it hang just out of reach of any prowling bears. If there are Cherokee hunters closing in on me, they'll find it. Maybe they'll be grateful for the gift and let me pass unmolested. Maybe. If it's still here when I circle back in a week, I'll count myself lucky.

I wrap the remaining pieces in the hide, folding the edges in, then I lash it behind my saddle. The mare would never tolerate the bloody bundle on her back, so the paint is just going to have to carry extra for a time.

I look down and pause. The antlers are beautiful - eight points, sturdy and true. I grit my teeth and decide to leave them behind. I don't have the talent to work with bone, horn or antler. Not many white men do. Besides, my packs are already ungainly. I'll travel faster without them. They're far more valuable to the Indians than they are to me anyway.

I break through the top crust of a snow drift, scoop up two handfuls of the coarse crystals and scrub my knives and hands clean of blood. My skin is red and itching by the time I mount up and slip my hands back into my mittens. I click my tongue, and the paint steps out, the mare huffing lightly as she feels the tug on her lead and falls in line behind us.

Last time I passed through this territory, I stumbled across a naturally formed shelter about fifteen miles southwest of the fort, a place where a rocky embankment had split and crumbled to create a void in the cliff face wide enough for half a dozen men to lay down side by side. The hickory and oak trees grow right up to the rock wall, offering a natural stable for up to three horses. I think I know how to reach it from here, but I don't know this territory as well as I would like.

I work my way up the next hill to get my bearings. By my reckoning, I'm an hour and a half, maybe two hours, away from the place. If I can avoid a Cherokee tomahawk or arrow in my back, I should be able to sleep pretty comfortably tonight. By midday tomorrow, I'll be eating a hot meal, drinking some decent whiskey, and maybe even finding a pretty girl to warm my bed for a couple nights while I make my trades and restock my kit.

Every quarter mile or so I stop and listen, checking my back trail for signs of pursuit. Several times I could almost swear there is a shape beneath the trees, a human form made up of shadows and blurred lines, but as I focus on each spot, I realize I am only being paranoid.

I push the horses faster. I'm about halfway there when I hear the call of a wolf south of my position. My heart quickens. It's not full dark yet, too early for nocturnal predators. An answering howl echoes off the hills to the east.

Did they find my tracks? Are they heading my way? Or is it just two halves of a hunting party reuniting after a long day of tracking game? I send a quick prayer to the Almighty that they find my offerings and are content. If they are Indian hunters, they'll see I have two horses, so they'll probably guess I'm not alone. Surely they won't risk so much for so little.

Unless they're worse off than I think. Unless they are young and reckless, looking for status within their tribe. Unless they have guns of their own. Unless…

I quiet my mind with effort. Snowflakes are beginning to fall. The horses' hooves are leaving barely any sign on the frozen ground, and nighttime and the impending storm will hide any others. I nudge the gelding a bit faster. The sooner I'm holed up, the better. I'll sleep with my revolver in my hand and my rifle beside me. The horses will warn me if anyone gets close. And by this time tomorrow… I feel warmer inside already. It's been too long. Too many cold, lonely nights out on the trail.

The snow is coming down in flurries, and the wind is picking up, rustling the tree tops and making the frozen branches creak and groan. The Smoky Mountains rise up on my right, black and still against the lowering clouds. I correct my course a few degrees and crunch across a frozen creek. Snow is settling over the ice, broken by the zigzag trickle of water doggedly making its way down toward the Tennessee River.

When I'm less than a furlong away, I dismount, leading the horses on foot. I creep closer to the shelter, wondering if anyone else has discovered it since I was last here. If so, maybe I can buy a spot by their fire with a slab of fresh venison. But, no… I don't smell smoke. I don't hear any animal sounds. I don't see signs of recent passage.

Up against the cliff face there is very little wind. In the quiet stillness I finally relax. I push through the undergrowth and look into the crevice. The space is dark and empty except for a blackened ring of stones and a small pile of firewood. Working quickly in the near blackness, I unload my supplies, carrying the meat to the back of the shelter where I can protect it from wandering bears, too hungry to settle in and hibernate as they should. I strip the saddles from the horses, rub them down with a rag, then hobble them and hang blankets across their backs. Once they are watered and lipping scattered oats up from the forest floor, I get to work building a fire.

My hands are stiff with cold, but the wood is dry and lights quickly. I feed my fledgling fire with twigs, then incrementally thicker sticks. I only leave the shelter to gather more wood when it is burning steadily, gradually turning two thick hickory logs bright red with embers. The yellow glow from the fire doesn't reach past the first row of tree trunks. I pat the gelding's rump as I squeeze past him and start searching the litter on the forest floor for suitable pieces of firewood.

It takes my eyes a long time to adjust after the brightness of the fire. I have to shake off almost an inch of snow from the branches I collect. When I have a good pile inside, I drag a couple of windfalls closer to the mouth of my shelter, scatter some more feed for the horses and hunker down next to my fire to fix some grub.

I'm famished, and I can't stop myself from salivating at the thought of the fresh meat. It's been nothing but jerky, chalky biscuits, oatmeal and dried fruit for the last month. I supplement my trail diet with whatever I can forage along the way, and frontier families are mighty generous with their vittles when you volunteer to put in a few hours digging holes for fence posts, splitting shingles or hauling water. Even so, I'm thinner than I've been in years.

I untie the hide and slice four thick pieces of backstrap, strip the bark from a couple of green sticks, skewer the meat and balance it over the open flame. Within minutes, the smell of roasting meat fills the air. I boil water and toss in a handful of oats and dried fruit. Sitting on my bedroll, I feast, licking the juice from my fingers after the first piece of venison, then going back for more.

I am chewing on a mouthful of meat when I hear the horses begin to snort and stomp. It's not a bear or wildcat - if it was, they would have been frantic. There's a person out there. But whether they are friend or foe, I have no idea.

I move up against the rocky wall with my back to the fire, looking out into the trees. My eyes strain to see into the darkness. The snow has been falling steadily for some time, and it lays almost hock-deep around the horses. The mare throws her head back, her eyes rolling off to the left. I look that way as a figure steps out from behind a tree.

My hand is at my hip, inches away from the butt of my revolver. She isn't carrying a weapon, so I relax slightly, but I don't drop my guard completely.

I scan the trees rapidly, but she appears to be alone. She is dressed like an Indian, with deerskin pants, a leather, beaded dress and moccasins on her feet. Her hair is pulled back, and she wears a fur hat and cloak. Despite her costume, I can tell she isn't full-blooded. Her bone structure is wrong; too smooth, with a wide brow and narrow jaw. Her skin is fairer than most Indians, practically glowing in the flickering firelight.

I greet her in English, but she only cocks her head to the side. I try the only Cherokee words I know, and she smiles, nodding slightly.

With her mittened hand tapping the center of her chest, she says, "Beh-luh."

"Siyo, Bella," I reply, smiling. Every Indian I've ever met has a much longer name. Either she is simplifying it for my benefit, or she really is half white and was named by her immigrant parent. "I am Edward." I tap my chest, mimicking her earlier gesture.

She squints. "Ed... wood?"

I shake my head, laughing. Some sounds don't translate well between tongues, and there is no equivalent to the 'r' in the Cherokee language.

"No, not wood." I kick a thick branch and say, "This is wood." Then I tap my chest again and say, "Ed-ward," emphasizing the 'r'.

"Ed-warrrd. Not wood."

"That's right. Ummm… Are you alone?" She looks confused, so I point out into the woods and make signs with my hand to show a man walking. "Are there others with you?"

She shakes her head and pulls her fur cloak tighter around her shoulders. The storm is blowing hard now. Although we are protected from the worst of the wind here, it whistles noisily through the treetops.

"Are you cold? Do you want something to eat?" I ask, rubbing my arms briskly, then putting my fingers to my mouth to mime eating.

Over the years I have held conversations with many Indians from various tribes, but most groups I have crossed had at least one member who possessed rudimentary English, Spanish or French. Completely dependent on pantomime, I hope she comprehends my question.

Bella copies my movements vigorously, so I motion her to follow me into the crevice in the rock wall. It widens almost immediately into a space broader than my arms can reach, and almost twelve feet deep. It is by no means warm, but the still air and the heat from the fire make it tolerable. The smoke climbs the walls to curl along the rough ceiling, before finding the cracks that will allow it to slip out of sight, filtering through the treetops.

Bella hurries to the fire with a delighted sound, sheds her mittens and holds her hands out toward the heat, her eyes closing and her lips turning up into a blissful smile. When she opens them at last, I offer her a piece of skewered venison, now quite cool. She squats beside the fire and tears into the meat as if she hasn't eaten for days. She is slender, but does not appear to be malnourished.

I wonder how she came to be roaming the hills alone and unarmed. She slips the cape from her shoulders and lays it over one of my saddlebags to dry. I notice the crude knife tucked into her belt and amend my initial assessment. Not unarmed. Poorly armed. The most she could do with it is skin a rabbit or squirrel. Perhaps she has snares set in the area and was checking them when the storm rolled in.

"More?" I ask, offering her more food when I see her chewing on the bare stick.

She nods enthusiastically, so I give her the last one and slide to the rear of the shelter to cut more. Her eyes follow me and widen when she sees the slabs of fresh meat. She licks her lips hungrily, and I laugh. When she spreads her arms wide then spreads her fingers above her head like antlers, I feel my shoulders roll back and my chin come up. I am inordinately pleased that she is impressed by my kill.

"Yep. He was a big buck. A real beauty. Now I wish I'd brought at least one of those antlers with me. I bet you would have loved to take something like that home with you. Maybe we can backtrack after the storm clears and see if they're still there. If so, we could pick up the other hindquarter for you to take back to your village."

Once she's finished a bowl of porridge and three more strips of meat, she looks around curiously. Her eyes take in all the details of my tiny camp. She picks curiously at the laces of my saddlebags, and I proudly pull things out to show them off, chuckling as she tries out the English names for things like 'knife', 'grain', 'shirt' and 'socks'. I hold my rifle up and explain how the ball, powder and wad transform from innocuous ingredients to a killing force when you pull the trigger. She touches the long, black barrel with her fingertips and shivers. It's a gorgeous piece - my most valuable possession, well the most expensive one, anyway, and my primary source of food and income.

When she finds my shaving kit, she seems impressed by the straight razor's keen edge. I had intended to shave in the morning in anticipation of rejoining civilization. I decide I might as well do it now. Maybe she will be entertained.

"Ever seen a white man shave?" I ask, scratching my fingers through my shaggy beard.

"Shhhave?"

"Yep. Can't wander into the fort looking like a complete derelict. If you want top dollar for your trades, you've got to look sharp. Sit right there," I say, pointing at my bedroll while I lay out my supplies.

I pour hot water into a bowl and soak a small towel, then hold it against my face, massaging gently until my skin warms up. I unscrew my soap, get my shaving brush damp, then work up a thick, creamy lather. Bella's eyes widen when I dab the foam all over my face, roughly working it into my beard. Suddenly she starts giggling. She points outside then points at my face over and over.

"Snow? Hahaha. No. Just shaving soap. Here's the fun part."

I unfold my razor and, moving quickly but carefully, I scrape the coarse, reddish hair away from my cheeks, throat, chin and upper lip. I'm more comfortable shaving with a mirror, but most days I can shave without one. I haven't managed to slit my own throat yet.

Bella's eyes get bigger and bigger. I pause to give her a crooked smile, and she giggles. She's kind of a silly girl, laughing about almost everything. I'm not sure how our conversation would go if she could speak my language, or I, hers. Maybe we would talk about hunting and skinning. Maybe she could tell me about her family or her village. I kind of doubt we would be discussing books or politics. I just don't think she's that sophisticated. There's an almost childlike innocence about her. Not the wily, suspicious attitude I've come to expect from most Indians. Not that I blame them.

I wipe my razor on the old towel in my lap, then snap it shut. With another damp towel, I pat my face clean and pour a few drops of aftershave into my palm. I hiss a little when the alcohol hits my face. Yep, I nicked my chin. Aw, well. It's not too bad.

Bella reaches toward my face with one tentative hand. When her fingertips brush against my smooth cheek, she lets out a squeal of delight. "Soft!"

"Yeah. That's the general idea."

I think it's adorable that she's using the words I've taught her. I laugh at myself when I realize how much I've been talking since she appeared. I'm not normally the conversational type. Something about her willing smile and expressive eyes has me dropping all my normal inhibitions. I know that there's no way she understands even a fraction of what I'm saying. She doesn't act as if she's ever heard English spoken before, although I'm certain I'm not the first white man she's ever seen.

I wonder if she inherited more than fair skin from her non-native parent or ancestors. I'm not fluent, but I know a bit of French, a respectable amount of German and a smattering of Spanish from trading with settlers and shopkeepers up and down the western edge of the expanding territories. I try a few words of greeting in each language. She looks surprised and curious at the odd sounds I'm making, then increasingly confused as I quickly exhaust my international vocabulary.

"Well… signs it is. Are you still hungry?" I ask, patting my belly.

She reaches over and tentatively places her hand on my stomach. "Wood," she says with a slow smile. "Wood," she says again, patting the rock wall.

It takes me a moment to catch on. Then I have to laugh. Years of life on the edge of civilization have made me hard, and I'm even leaner than normal for this time of year.

"No, no, no. This is wood. It burns in the fire. Hot fire," I correct her, dropping another medium-sized chunk of wood onto the fire and rubbing my hands together. "Wood is hard. Rocks are hard." I make a fist, rapping it against the pile of wood, then against the wall. "It's the opposite of soft," I say to illustrate the contrast, patting the blankets I am sitting on, then stroking her fur cape where it lies behind us. "See? Soft. Hard."

"Hard," she agrees, copying me with her hand patting a log. "Hard," she says again, stressing the 'r' awkwardly as she touches my stomach once more. When her hand drops lower, she says the word again, but her tone drifts up questioningly.

"Uh…"

Suddenly I'm speechless. But I can't lie. She can feel the truth for herself. I nod haltingly.

"Hard," she says again, smugly. Then she brings her hand to rest between her thighs and speaks in a low, seductive voice, "Sooofft."

"Uh… Yeah. I bet it is. Real soft. And warm."

For days I've been setting my sights on reaching town to experience the luxuries that only civilization can provide, but now I realize that I'm right where I wanted to be all along. I'm warm, well fed, and there is a very beautiful, apparently very willing woman right here. The only thing I'm missing is the whiskey, but I'm actually feeling plenty drunk without it.

I watch, my mouth hanging open slightly, as she unlaces her dress and lifts it off.

She takes my hand and raises it to her breast. Her voice is low and breathy when she speaks. "Soft. Warm."

"So soft. So warm," I agree. "So beautiful."

And she is, with eyes so deep brown they remind me of chestnuts, and skin as lovely and smooth as fresh cream. Her hair is dark brown, almost black, drawn back in a thick plait that hangs past her slender waist. I raise my other hand to cup her jaw, my thumb caressing her gently sculpted cheekbone. She shivers slightly, goosebumps racing across her skin, her nipple hardening against my palm.

My fingers are callused, there are traces of blood under my fingernails, my skin is weathered and rough from years of sun, wind and cold. I'm a product of my environment. No surprise there.

By contrast, her skin… it's like moonlight on a glassy pond, somehow both opaque and translucent. My eyes are lost in the swells and valleys, the undulating curves. They hypnotize me. Everything about her is gorgeous and mesmerizing.

She shifts to kneel in front of me, her fingers reaching for the buttons of my shirt. I watch her undress me, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. Her fingers are slender and quick, deftly loosening my belt before going to work on the laces of my trousers. I let her push the fabric down over my hips. She gasps when my cock springs free, jutting up toward her belly.

My world has narrowed down to two simple words. Hard… Soft... I'm hard as a rock, just like she said, and I'm very ready to feel her softness around me.

I have to let go of her to finish undressing. My hands miss the feel of her skin as I loosen my boot laces and strip down to bare skin. The air has a bite to it, but it only serves to invigorate me. It makes me want to move violently, to crash into her, to tumble her in my blankets and rut like a wild creature.

Her pearl-white teeth dig into her lower lip as she watches me from beneath her thick, black lashes. She wraps her hands around me, stroking up over and over, then down. Hand-over-hand she works me, four strokes up from base to tip, then four strokes down. Over and over until I see stars. And I'm harder than iron. Painfully so. Leaking out my need and gasping for air that refuses to fill my burning lungs.

Once I'm shaking and swaying on my feet, Bella finally finishes undressing, one hand braced against the wall as she kicks off her moccasins and leather pants. I grab her wrists and place her hands flat against the stone wall. Then I pull her hips back toward me, spreading her feet with my own. I have to bend my knees to get the right angle, but when I push into her heat, I know it's just right.

The fire is at my back, blistering my skin. And she's under me, in front of me, around me, blistering my soul. Our shadows are one dancing, pulsating creature. I snap the strip of rawhide that binds her plait, loosening the tightly woven strands until I can tangle my fingers in the silky mass of her hair. There's a pressure building deep inside me, fighting to escape. I plant my right hand beside hers on the wall and grab her around the waist with my other arm, lifting her up on her toes. And I fuck her. I fuck her 'til her screams are bouncing off the walls and tearing through the night. I fuck her until we both collapse on the ground, shaking and crying and burning for more.

Then I roll onto my back, drag her limp body over mine, pull my blanket over us both and make love to her. I use my hands and my mouth, tracing lines of lust through the salt on her skin. Once I've recovered my strength, I push up into her slippery heat and work my way deeper and deeper, thrust after thrust, until she's sobbing against my throat, crying out in her own tongue the desperation and the need. Suddenly she goes silent, and I freeze, the throb and rush of her orgasm triggering my own. It's in that moment of absolute completion that I somehow slip away, my mind fragmenting into the night.

I wake up to the sound of a branch snapping outside, followed by a rushing thump. Trees are buckling beneath the weight of the snow. The mare whickers restlessly, but settles down almost immediately, exhausted after so many days of long, cold marches. I struggle into my trousers, coat and boots to check on the horses anyway. There are standing side by side, heads and tails hanging as they sleep. The snow is still coming down thickly, whispering as it slips between branches and tree trunks to gather on the forest floor. I drag some more wood into the rocky cleft and build up the fire, piling the glowing embers between thicker branches so they burn hotter.

I hear Bella sigh, and I look down at her. She is watching me with a sleepy smile on her face. She might not know more than five words of English, but she knows exactly what to do with a man's body. I am suddenly eager to be with her again. When I strip off my clothes and burrow back under the blankets, she opens herself to me willingly.

The first time was frantic, almost animalistic. It had been so long that I couldn't take it slow. And Bella met every thrust like a wildcat, arching her back and screaming her pleasure. This time starts out slower, more controlled, but that feeling doesn't last for long.

I'm shivering with more than cold. I'm feeling hungry and rabid and like I just might explode. It's almost as if she was built for me specifically. The way she writhes beneath me, like she's trying to climb inside of me, or pull me through her, or inhabit the very space that I exist within. Like she can't get there fast enough. Like I'm the answer to every question. Or she is the mystery, and I am her secret.

I think maybe she could be an Indian goddess, or a spirit of the woods. She can't possibly be human. She is more. More. More than any mortal woman I've ever seen or touched. More than a fantasy. More than heaven.

I fall into her cries and her shuddering moans. She drags me deeper, clenching and pulling until my soul flows out of me and into her fire. I collapse beneath the weight of my need, boneless and sated, but somehow still moving inside of her. I melt in the heat until my thoughts drift into a sea of darkness, a blanket of sweet oblivion that whispers my name like a lover, like a savior, like a dream.

It's a timeless place. A safe and tranquil place. Like a vision where nothing happens. Nothing at all. It's the most peaceful place in the world. And I'm content to just… be...

I am floating in a fog as the snow piles up, drifting closer and closer, until I start to shiver uncontrollably. It shouldn't be so cold. I roll over, wondering why she isn't pressed soft and warm against me anymore. All I feel is hard stone.

I sit up, staring around me blearily. The fire is a sprinkle of embers beneath a fine layer of soot. I stir them up and toss a handful of twigs on top, blowing gently until flames lick along the thin bark. I add more wood and look around. It's light enough to see, but it's impossible to tell how high the sun is. The light is grayish blue and smoky. I'm shivering now, so I grab my shirt and trousers, wriggling into them beneath the blankets.

Bella must have gone outside to relieve herself. I'm feeling the pressure myself, so I plan to do the same as soon as she returns. While I wait, I decide to boil water for coffee and oatmeal, maybe even fry up some venison for breakfast. I shove my bare feet into my boots and shuffle to the back of the shelter, but the ledge where I left the bundled meat and hide is empty. Well, almost empty. There is a stringy leg joint and a small slab of meat, enough for three of four meals.

I scratch my scalp, confused. I look around with dismay, finally seeing what I was too sleep-muddled to notice before. There is no sign of Bella. Her clothes are gone. Worse than that, my saddle bags are baggy and flat. Two are missing altogether. I run outside and stop short. The paint gelding is standing where I left him, hobbled and contentedly chewing through a big pile of grain. The mare is nowhere in sight.

Bella's tracks are buried beneath at least a foot of snow, so catching her will be slow and arduous. There's no telling who or what I'll find if I do catch up with the little vixen.

I curse beneath my breath and rush back into the shelter, digging frantically through what's left of my belongings. She left me my revolver and a few bullets, the clothes I was wearing, my bedroll, my knives and my smallest cooking pot. There is a small pouch of grain for the gelding in one bag, and my compass, my Bible, and the miniature painting of my parents and kid sister in another. I'm relieved. It's the only possession I treasure above all else.

Everything else is gone. Everything with any value. I have just enough supplies to make it down to the tiny town where I had planned to restock. I realize with some surprise that she left my purse. By my count all the money is there, but I'll be lucky if it's enough to replace half the stuff she stole. I think of the venison I left behind in the woods and the antlers that are suddenly so much more valuable to me.

Should I make the long trek through the snow-clogged forest to see if they're still there? What if they aren't? Will I still have enough food to reach the fort alive? I've gotten by with less, but I'll be slogging through snow drifts the whole way. A half day's trek could take me two or even three days now. And there's a damn sight less for the gelding to eat out there now that the snow is so thick on the ground. I'd have to shovel away the snow to allow him to forage.

She took my shovel. Damn.

I'm cursing her and angry enough to commit murder when my eyes fall on the wood pile. Suddenly I'm remembering her impish smile as she asked me if I was hard. Hard like wood.

She played me. She played me for a fool.

I boil myself some water and drink it down, pretending it's coffee, and I laugh. She took through cunning that which any man, Indian or Spaniard, Scot or Frenchman, would have struggled to take by force. But she didn't take my life. She left me the minimum I needed to survive. Smart, smart girl. She outwitted me, playing on my pride, then stroking my lust, until I practically handed her everything I owned. By my reckoning, she earned every scrap of cloth and ounce of gunpowder.

I pack up everything I have left and head into the woods, looking for her tracks. There are none. No footprints, no broken branches, no sign of my Indian goddess. Then I feel the tickle of a cobweb across my cheek. But it's not a cobweb. It's a single strand of dark brown hair, caught on a branch and fluttering in the morning breeze. I force myself to slow down, to capture every detail of my surroundings. Looking at the tree nearby more closely, I see where a stirrup scraped against a tree trunk. A few feet further I find a broken spruce branch. Lucky for me, the mare is being uncooperative with her new rider.

I talked a lot last night, but there's one thing I didn't tell Bella. I didn't tell her what a keen nose this gelding has. He might as well be part bloodhound. If he can find water in a desert from ten miles off, he can track the mare across a couple miles in the snow. She's been his stable mate for going on four years. He'll track her down, and my possessions with her. And when I find her rider, it will be my pleasure to earn it all back again.

Uh huh. I'm going to earn it back with interest.

"Tch, tch," I say, urging my mount forward.

The snow is too deep to wade through, so I ride, but it's slow going for the gelding. I keep my seat neutral, the reins slack, allowing him to choose his route. I see signs of another's passage through the woods, but they are widely spaced. Bella is learning to control the mare, something I never could do. Of course they understand one another. Women. Hah!

The sun is hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, but I guess it to be at least two hours after sunrise. It's no longer snowing, and the wind has died down to a light breeze, but her tracks are completely obscured, so she must have left me hours ago. Did she find a place to hole up to wait out the rest of the storm? Her route feels purposeful, the lines too straight, the turns too abrupt. She has a destination in mind.

Three cold, wet, exhausting hours later, her destination is obvious. She's heading straight for the settlement down by the river. I don't know who she really is or what she is capable of doing, but I know that as soon as she leaves that town and hits the well-traveled roads, she's lost to me forever. I realize with a start that I am as determined to find the girl as I am the items she stole.

They're just material objects. They have value, true, but they are replaceable. Bella, on the other hand… I'll never find another woman like her.

I nudge my mount forward, rocking my hips and digging my heels into his sides. The snow is at least two feet deep, and we plough through it slowly, every inch gained at great expense. We finally reach a flat, nearly treeless area, where the wind has swept most of the snow away. I dismount to give the paint a breather, and I walk beside him, one hand on his withers, my eyes searching for any sign of the mare and her rider.

The gelding seems confused. Did he lose the scent, or is he just tired? Has Bella been leading us along a false track all this time? I wonder if she could have backtracked, changed direction, tricked me into thinking she would head for the closest trading post. But there really is nothing else within a day's travel.

Another two hours and I could be in White's town. Bella is the sort of woman who would capture people's attention. If she did pass through there, someone would have seen her. One thing I've learned out here on the leading edge of civilization - people like to talk. You just need to ask the right questions.

My mind made up, I lead my horse toward the town. He seems to perk up the closer we get, but whether it's because he scents his stablemate, or because he knows the smell of civilization means hot mash and a warm stable, I do not know. Not for the first time, I wish I could read his thoughts, such as they are.

I hit the first signs of settlement much earlier than I expect. Trees felled, land cleared, homes erected with chicken coops in the yards and split-rail fencing about the perimeter of each parcel. This is progress, I guess.

The town itself is ten times larger than the last time I passed through. I see two saloons where one did just fine before. There's an honest-to-goodness hotel, and I wish I had the cash to spare for a hot meal. That is, if I could even make myself presentable, which I can't, because that little vixen made off with my best shirt and shaving kit. I look right slovenly, I'm sure.

I whistle at a boy running awkwardly in boots too large for his narrow feet, gangly limbs flailing as he narrowly misses a pile of dung left steaming in the snow by another rider's mount. "Hey boy, where would a man find an honest trader? It's been 18 months since I last passed through here, and I don't know up from down."

"You be wantin' Mistah Cope, suh. 'E runs the mercantile, an' 'is wife, Miss Shelley, 'andles the post."

"Ms. Shelley found a man, huh? Damn. Looks like I waited too long," I joke, relieved to hear there's at least one familiar face still around. "Good for her."

Ms. Shelley is a tough-as-nails woman with a heart of gold and a matronly air. She posted my last letter home and promised to hold any reply for me 'til the next time I passed through town. I dig into my purse and pull out one precious penny as thanks. He catches it deftly and turns to go.

"Wait!" I call, and he spins back around, big gray eyes watching me expectantly. "Did you happen to see a beautiful young Indian lady riding a dainty bay mare passing through here earlier today?"

"No Injun leddies, but a pretty dame on a lil hoss. Not thirteen 'ands an' one white stripe on 'er lef' foreleg."

"That's her. Did you see which direction she rode?"

"Yessuh. She asked to trade, same as you. I sen' 'er to Mistuh Cope. Only she given me a whole quartuh."

"I bet she did. She is generosity itself," I add sarcastically. "Off with you now, little scamp."

I turn the gelding's nose north in the direction the boy indicated. I find the building with no trouble. Sandwiched between a milliner and a barber, the Copes obviously do a brisk business. The store front is white-washed pine boards with real windows, their wares laid out behind the glass on a strip of green felt to entice passers-by.

Sure enough, my bay mare is hitched in front, a blanket tied across her back to ward off the cold. She whickers in greeting, and the gelding bumps up against her eagerly. I pull his reins around the hitching post, pat his nose in thanks and step up to the door. I kick the worst of the snow from my boots and ease it open, wondering what I'll find on the other side. A contrite girl driven to steal by desperation… or the wrong end of my rifle?

The man I assume is Mr. Cope spares me a smile and a wave in greeting. There are two other customers in his shop; a wizened granny comparing two bolts of calico fabric, and Bella.

She's changed. It isn't just that she's traded her deerskin dress for a gray cotton gown, or the way her hair is looped, twisted and coiled into a prim knot at the nape of her neck. It is her entire demeanor, her posture, her voice… speaking English firmly and fluently as she doggedly bargains Mr. Cope up another few pennies for my pocket watch.

I am stunned speechless. She hasn't even looked back at me. Didn't she hear me enter? There is a pile of goods at her feet. My goods. Well, some of them. The pile is looking pretty lean. On the counter behind Mr. Cope are all the items I presume she has already traded for cash or the supplies I see stacked neatly near her elbow.

She unrolls my shaving kit and flips my razor open, the lamp light glinting off the blade's perfectly honed edge. "I planned to offer this to the barber. I'm sure it's far superior to whatever he's using right now, judging by the abominable shaves of half the men I see wandering around." Mr. Cope rubs his chin self-consciously as she continues. "But I will offer it to you first. Three dollars."

I am amused and curious, waiting to see how he reacts to such an insane price.

Mr. Cope is turning an uncomfortable shade of pink. "Three dollars? For an old blade? Preposterous!"

"Three dollars for a smooth-as-silk shave every day for the rest of your life. And that's for the whole kit, not just the razor. That badger hair brush is exquisite, isn't it? See the polished walnut handle, with those delicate whorls of chocolate and caramel? Lovely. A gentleman's tool, I'm sure. And look at the bristles, perfectly aligned, not a single one loose or broken. This is a luxury item, not just a rough-shod imitation. But perhaps I should show it to Mr. Banner, first. He's hardly likely to quibble over pennies with such a beautiful set as this… Why, an elegant blade like this will shave a smoother line and command a higher class clientele. He'll make his money back and then some. It will practically pay for itself!"

"Two fifty, and that's it. Although I feel you're fleecing me, for sure, young lady. And I'll want to test it first myself!"

That's when it hits me that I'm about to lose the only razor I've ever trusted. I clear my throat and step forward, the words spilling out before I even realize I have a plan. "Darling, you must have mistaken me. I had no intention of selling my blade, or my rifle, for that matter," I add, glancing down at the long-barreled gun leaning up against the counter beside her.

Bella's shoulders stiffen and she turns slowly, her expression calm and welcoming, but her eyes screaming her alarm. "Darling?"

"Yes, love. I'm sorry I took so long. I never intended to leave you to deal with all this alone. What are we at so far?" I ask, eying the mound of coins on the counter.

She is sharp, that's for damn sure. She's gotten half again what I paid for most of my stuff, and that's for road-weary, battle-scarred gear, to boot! I wrap my right arm around her and grasp her hip with my hand. She flinches, the tension in her shoulders possessing the rest of her body in a single heartbeat.

"Oh, no, no, no," I continue the act. "I never meant for you to sell that shirt. It's my favorite! Unless you were planning to surprise me with one sewn by your own delicate, talented fingers." I tap my own fingertips against her hip, stroking softly down an inch or more.

A blush climbs up her neck and stains her cheeks red at my mention of her hands. Yes, she knows what I'm alluding to.

"Edward, I think we need to speak. Privately."

She begins to pull away, but I don't release my hold on her. The granny with the fabric is approaching the counter with her choices, so I tug Bella out of the way. "Over here, then, my love. Mr. Cope, please hold that thought. My wife and I won't be but a moment."

Bella is practically spitting with indignation by the time we reach the relative privacy of the rear corner of the store. "Your wife? Darling? Love? You're delusional."

"Oh really? So stealing three quarters of a man's worldly goods after sharing his food, his fire and his bed is sane?"

"It's survival. The law of the land."

"I've seen horse thieves shot in the back without a chance to argue their case. Here I catch you selling my possessions, and you're calling me out? I should expose you."

"But instead you claim me as your wife? You're absurd."

"And you're a liar."

"Ha. You're a fool. Thinking with your cock, not your brain. I could have slit your throat with your own blade. I could have left you to freeze with nothing at all. But I-"

"But you didn't. Why not?" I ask her the question that has been bothering me since the moment I realized she was gone. "Why didn't you?"

"I-"

"You're not as ruthless as you believe yourself to be. You're an incredible actress. The theaters of France would be blessed to have one such as you gracing their stage. So tell me, you could have disappeared without a trace, but you didn't. Your woodcraft is superior to my own, but I was able to track you. You could have ridden for days before stopping, but here you are, mere hours away from where we slept, burning time like it's tallow. Did you want me to catch-"

"No!" she almost shouts.

"Well then, enlighten me. Since you can speak, after all."

She clenches her teeth and scowls, unwilling or unable to respond.

"I have a proposal for you."

"And what would that be?" she asks coldly.

"Join me," I say, impulsively.

It feels right. I should be angry. I should turn her over to the local sheriff. Instead, all I can see is us riding the wild trails and plains together, with a warm fire and an even warmer bed at the end of a long day's ride.

"Excuse me?"

"Hunt with me, ride with me, be with me… marry me."

"And why would I want to do that?" Her eyes are narrow, doubtful. She doesn't trust me.

"Because if you do, half of all that stuff out there is yours. No argument. Except for the razor. I love that razor."

"You look better with a beard."

"Fine. I hate that razor. Marry me," I say stepping close enough to feel the heat of her body.

"I don't ever want a house or window boxes or a kitchen garden."

"I don't care. Marry me," I repeat, drawing her against me with my hands at her waist.

"I don't-"

And I kiss her, my mouth silencing her protests, her body finally relaxing against me. Soft. Warm… Mine.

Thanks for reading! Updates for my other stories are sitting on Google Docs in various stages of completion. I will get to them ASAP... after filing taxes, cutting down the rotten plum tree, fixing the bathtub drain and various other domestic chores.