FERN

I picked a spot a short walk through the trees surrounding Julia's garden. It wasn't close to water, which was something I usually required. I wanted to know more about her plants, and how the chemicals effected them. Plus, I could get her some water as I retrieved it for myself. It was the least I could do in the way of chores.

How long had it been since I was part of a group? Back home, we'd all had a role. John was older, and his chores tended to all center on the fields. Planting the seed, harvesting the crop, tending the horses and our mule, Benjamin. Mama kept the house a home, worked a smaller garden of herbs and did all the cooking.

As the youngest, I got what was left over. Milking the cow, feeding the pigs, mucking the stalls and collecting eggs from the coop. The more people Daddy brought to the barn, the more my responsibilities shifted toward helping Mama prepare all the food. Even then, food was the constant. Enough bread. Enough butter. Enough chickens to produce enough eggs. I made meals for people for months and never saw their faces, and it had likely been my hands that kneaded the last bit of bread they ever ate.

I dropped my pack to the ground and grabbed my hatchet from within. The day had gotten away from me, and I'd neglected the work I needed to do for myself. A shelter was top priority, almost more important than food. Food kept my body running. Shelter kept it warm, dry, and uneaten.

I walked over to a small birch tree, dropped to my knees, and started hacking a notch into the base.

Tex didn't move to help right away. He let me take it down to the ground first, then circled it. "That's a lot of work. How many times do you do that to build your shelter?"

I finished cutting the bottom loose, then pushed myself to my feet. The coat was too hot now. I slid it off and draped it over my pack. "It depends. For a full structure, I guess at least twenty-five? Thirty? I won't have time to build four walls today, though, so it won't take as many."

He hummed and scratched the scruff on his jaw. "Do you just notch the wood like they did log cabins back in the day?"

"Well, yeah, actually. That's exactly how I'd do it. Do you know a lot about building?"

He smiled. "I'm not completely useless, Darlin'. I can build most anything. I can fix things that are broken. If you've got a honey-do list, I'm your honey." He winked.

I looked back to the tree as if it could cool my burning cheeks. The way I reacted to him was embarrassing. My inexperience was a poisonous thorn that scattered my thoughts and stilled my tongue. He wasn't a boy. He was a man who'd likely held hundreds of women's hands before mine. It probably didn't even mean that much to him. Like a pat on the back or a high five. Simple contact. Yet, one little tease from him, and I was ready to spontaneously combust. I wrapped my arms around the trunk and began dragging it to where I planned to set up the lean-to.

Tex picked it up and balanced it over his good shoulder. "Where you want it?"

"Just," I pointed, "There is fine... Are you sure you should do that? With your injury? You don't need to–" I tried to take one end, but he was too massive, and I felt silly just managing to press my fingertips to the bark.

He dropped it to the ground, and, without acknowledging my worry, brushed past to another Birch. His hands ran over the trunk as if testing it before he leveraged his weight and gave a low grunt. The wood splintered and cracked, then fell to the ground with a resounding whoosh.

I gaped at him. He'd made it clear he wasn't normal. He'd explained why. I could see with my own eyes how massive he was. I could only assume that he'd be strong. But how strong? Was this straining him? Would it pull too much on his wound and cause problems I wouldn't be able to fix? "Wait," I said as he stepped over to another.

"I'm fine, Darlin'," he said, voice strained as he repeated the action. Another crack, another whoosh, and the tips of bare branches collided with those of the first tree.

I chewed my lip as he continued, working in a straight line away from me. He tracked his progress as he went. When he reached thirty, he walked back to where I stood and took the hatchet from my hand. Sweat coated his brow and neck, but he didn't complain. He took the hatchet as if asking permission, then murmured a, "Thank you," and went to work cutting them into identical sections and notching the ends.

I stood useless, wanting to help but not wanting to get in his way. He worked too fast. It hadn't even been three quarters of an hour, and he'd completed work that would have taken me days. When he finished the first tree, I walked over to assemble the pieces.

"Nope," he said, waving me off. "I want to know how to cook the berries. Build a fire, and you can explain it to me while I finish up here."

Tex kept his strain guarded, but I could see it; a slight flinch each time he sunk the hatchet into the wood. I stood for a moment, torn as to what to do. He needed to stop. I needed to stop him, but the look on his face and the tone to his voice made it clear that wouldn't be easy to do. The image of Daddy stubbornly refusing to bend on a number of issues flashed through my mind like snapshots. John had been the same way, more hard-headed than a bull and twice as stupid.

With a sigh, I started gathering kindling and focused on building a fire. And that's how it went. I spoke about the berries, explaining each step and why I was doing it the way I was, and Tex listened and asked questions as he chopped and lugged and assembled logs behind me. He had four walls up by the time I'd finished cooking, and I sat and watched as he used the leafier branches to form a roof.

A trickle of blood down his arm was the pound that broke my horse's back. "That's good enough," I said, pushing to my feet.

"I'm almost done," he said.

"No. You're done now. Stop." I walked over and gripped his good arm with both hands, then yanked him toward the fire. "Sit down! You're bleeding. Let me look and see how much damage you've done."

Tex gave a low, throaty laugh but did as he was told with a slow, "Yes, ma'am. My apologies. Please don't hurt me."

My glare only made his smile widen, and before I knew it, I wasn't angry anymore. Just guilty. I'd shot this man with my bow, and in exchange, he'd fed me, given me soap and clothes, offered me access to continuous food and hurt himself building my shelter.

"You've done enough," I said, tone softened. "I don't need all this. I'll teach you, okay? I already agreed, and I'm a woman of my word. You don't need to put yourself out on my account." I removed the knot in the shirt I'd tied around his shoulder. It was soaked, and as I peeled away the poultice, an angry red wound welling up with fresh blood greeted me with accusations. I cursed beneath my breath, something I only did when the situation called for it. And this situation did.

Tex fell silent as I worked to rinse and wipe away the blood. He didn't complain when I cauterized the wound again, but his tense jaw and tight lips might as well have been screaming. My guilt magnified. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Almost done."

I sat the knife aside and made a fresh poultice, then spread it over the wound and searched my brain for ideas on what to use as a bandage. The one he'd had was too wet with blood, and my old clothes still hung over the branches where I'd bathed. "Wait here," I said, grabbing the coat off my pack and stepping around him. "Don't... don't turn around."

He didn't comment. He sat, head cocked as if listening, as I removed my t-shirt, then slid the coat on and zipped it to my neck. When I stepped back around, t-shirt in hand, swallowed in the fabric of his coat, I found a statue where a man had been. His hooded eyes didn't blink. His chest rose but didn't fall.

"I needed a fresh bandage," I said. "I'm sorry it has to be the shirt you just gave me, but I left my old stuff drying by the river."

He gave a slow nod, eyes fixed on the zipper. "Don't worry about the shirt. I have plenty. I'll get you another."

I leaned over him to tie it into place, and his hand lifted to cup my side. He didn't grip or hold me. He didn't pull me closer. It was just a helpful touch, one to help me balance, yet the same warmth I'd felt when he'd held my hand seemed to penetrate the coat and ignite every ounce of blood in my body. My fingers fumbled over the task, but I kept my eyes glued to the shirt and got it secured. "There," I breathed. "All done."

He lowered his hand as I backed away and motioned to the pot with his chin. "The berries smell good."

I blinked, then nodded and grabbed the pot. It'd cooled, but the offering inside was plenty cooked to make it safe to eat. I grabbed the spoon I used, one I'd carved from a piece of wood, and handed both to him.

Tex took a heaping bite and chewed. "They're tangy," he said as he sat the pot down between us and passed the spoon back to me. "A little tart, but still sweet."

"They aren't as good as raspberries or blueberries. But it was a good find, especially this time of year when the bears are picking everything clean."

He watched me take a bite, gaze thoughtful. "If I'd have known I could find so much sweetness in the woods, I'd have been looking a long time ago."