I woke up in the morning feeling like I was made of lead from a terrible night’s sleep. The cabin was empty. Cade must have gone fishing to catch our trout breakfast. It can’t taste that bad, can it? I put my clothes back on.

Before going to bed, all by myself, I had undressed with faint hope I would have a visitor to my pallet on the floor. But somewhere in the night, my hope of a real man’s moving body on mine died, and turned to my usual habit of running through my list of worries and adding a few extra ones I never knew I had.

I put the coffee on and looked out of the window.

Outside were the stark reminders of our evening together. What had seemed like a romantic interlude in the night looked very different in the cold light of day. The pan Cade had tossed aside was covered by fresh inches of snow so only the handle jutted out, the stools sat too wide apart for coziness, the extinguished embers by a pile of wet snow gave the scene a look of desolation rather than romance.

I didn’t know where it all went wrong last night. Things were going well, or so I thought. He got intense for a while, then he went into his own mind, and climbed up to his bed never saying a word.

Not that it stopped me from hoping and waiting. I think I was restless and unable to sleep from being near him. I couldn’t stop thinking about how his hardness had brushed against my breasts. The way my nipples had instantly become hard. God, I wanted him so much.

For ages I lay there and thought about Cade. For the other half of the night I wrestled with the ‘What do I do about my sister’ question. Would there be enough for her so I can start fresh again? I worried that life will be like this until the day I die, a rat race just trying to make enough money for my sister and I to keep the wolves at bay. Will there ever be a day of peace when I can stop worrying? Someday will I have plenty? Will my sister make it to see that day?

My mind raced with scenarios. Get rich quick schemes and jobs morally beneath me played out in my head, tempting me.

Then, finally, when I could put it off no longer I wondered about the scheme I’d already taken part in and if the low laying morals to them will haunt me forever. In the early hours of the morning I exhausted myself enough to fall asleep.

I pulled on my coat and boots and went outside.

A few inches more snow had fallen in the night, but not much difference considering how much there was already on the ground. However, it was the look of the weather that morning that made it seem almost ominous. It was foggy and damp and the air felt oppressive and eerie.

I didn’t like it.

I pulled the pan out of the snow, dusted the stools, and brought them all back inside the cabin. The coffee wasn’t going to drink itself, so I poured myself a cup. The hot liquid felt like heaven. Please, God, let that snow clear before we run out of coffee.

Cade had been gone for a long time. I was hoping to drink the coffee with him. Then, I had the bright idea to take him a flask of coffee down to the creek. Maybe by the time I get there he’ll have caught this trout. I filled a flask of black coffee and opened the front door.

From the porch, I saw Cade’s boot tracks in the snow leading towards the creek. He told me last night it wasn’t a great distance away, around a bend through the trees and down to the water. I followed his footsteps, adjusting my stride to match his large boot prints. I laughed at myself as I mimicked him. Cade has a sexy, self-assured walk. Although, I was not sure it looked so good on me.

By the time I made it to the creek, he wasn’t there. I looked up and down the bank for him in surprise. His footsteps didn’t go anywhere else. Just went straight into the freezing water, and even though I knew he took a dip in the creek, it still sounded just plain crazy. Why would anyone willingly wade into the ice-cold water? The creek was beautiful though, and made a sound so peaceful you could almost feel the tones massaging your worries away.

OK, so he obviously didn’t go fishing this morning. I guess he thinks we’ll be eating another can of soup for dinner. Wrong. Before walking back towards the cabin, I took off a glove and put my hand over one of the small, round, stones about the size of my palm. The water pushed over and around my hand in such a calming way. Still, it was freezing, almost literally, and I’d take the hike to the hot spring for a bath over the breathtaking cold of the creek anytime.

I trekked back through the snow retracing my tracks. As I got closer to the cabin I heard a sound coming from the outbuilding a stone’s throw away. It was a square building that sat some distance away from the cabin, and without the snow I would have spotted it earlier. Stacked neatly outside the door were cut sections of a tree trunk, some in the shape of discs, some longer pieces and logs. I don’t know why I didn’t think he might have been there. I veered off the path and started walking towards it instead.

The door was ajar wide enough for me to peek through. There were worktops on both sides, like a galley. There were also many windows on all sides. I was no Peeping Tom and I hadn’t intended to spy on him. I had planned on announcing my presence and going in, but I was just so struck by the sight of him so completely lost in the wood structure he was making that I couldn’t stop looking. I loved the way his tall, muscular frame moved around the wood, like he was wrapping himself around it, protecting it, pushing and pulling at it, as if he was giving it life with his own body. Almost as if he was birthing it.

The piece he was working was fastened in place on top of a pedestal, and he was using a chisel and a wooden mallet to gauge out sections. As the wood shavings fell away, he swiped his powerful hand over the ridges and grooves that swirled and curved like water in the wood. His fingers trailed and lingered, as if he was caressing the wood, as if he was asking it to tell him tales of the life it had weathered, of storms and strong winds, and the animals it had sheltered. His movements were as sensuous as a panther prowling to the river at dusk. I heard nothing, but maybe it spoke to him. His attention in his creation was so total.

Oblivious to my prying eyes, he squinted at the sculpture. Then he placed his chisel on a pale spot, raised his mallet into the air and let it fall. The blade dragged through the wood.

Mesmerized, I watched his face as he leaned in to see the effect of his action. How different he was. There was purpose, determination, hardness, mystery, and sheer beauty shining in his face.

Grasping the edges of the platform the sculpture was standing on, he shifted it around so he could work on the other side of it. That was when I saw the other side. It was the bust of a woman. The lines he was following down the back were the locks of tussled, uneven hair.

Her face was still rough and unfinished, but in a way it was more beautiful than what it would be finished. I saw the raw power of his genius. I was stunned that he had brought it to its current, intricate state from being a log like the ones carelessly stacked just outside the door.

I watched him for ages. It was only when Cade stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve that he spotted me in the doorway.