Heidi is shy for several days after our brief but passionate encounter outside the cabin. She seems jumpy and extra conscious of me.

Understandable. I am conscious of her too. How could I not be?

I haven’t forgotten the taste of her. The way she clung to me, the way her body felt in my arms. Each night I lie awake and listen to the slow, steady dripping of the melting snow from the rooftop, it’s all I can think about.

I desire her. More than I ever imagined I could. And it terrifies me.

Can I really be with a woman again? Do I dare? After what happened before…

There are her feelings to consider, too. I know her husband damaged her, though I’ve yet to comprehend the full extent of her wounds. She certainly responded to my advances eagerly enough, but could she have really gone through with the act if I’d tried to make love to her?

My Squirrel is precious to me. I’m sure now I love her more than my own life. As much as I desire her, I would not hurt her for the world…

I have a lot of practice, repressing my desires. I did it for twelve years before she came to me. Back then, it wasn’t even difficult. But now, with each day that passes, she pushes the limits of what my mind and body can endure. Every night as I watch her figure by firelight, I feel myself slipping a little closer to the edge. If I’m not careful, if I don’t keep myself on a very tight leash…

Time, that’s what we need. A little more time for both of us to heal. When we’re both ready, we’ll come together as before.

Then nothing will keep us apart.

This morning she serves me breakfast. I watch her move about the cabin out of the corner of my eye, conscious of the shape of her feminine body beneath her scarlet dress, of the sound of her footfall and her quiet humming as she works around me. It’s a habit she’s picked up recently, singing to herself, and I don’t mind it one bit. I don’t understand much about music, but to me, her voice is very pretty.

“More coffee?” she asks me, and for just a moment, I catch myself staring at her gorgeous lips. “Rand?”

I shake myself and stand abruptly.

“No. I’m heading out to set traps along the sunny ridge where most of the snow’s melted.”

“All the snow will be gone in another week or so,” she predicts. “And then,” she turns the most brilliant smile on me, “the birds will return.”

“That’s right,” I catch myself smiling back at her. “And the flowers.”

“I love flowers.”

“I’ll pick the first ones I see, and bring them to you in a bouquet,” I say seriously, and her face softens. Her eyelashes flutter and the faintest blush creeps into her cheeks.

“Why are you always so…”

“So what?” I prompt her quietly, curious, but she lowers her big eyes and shakes her head shyly. She looks so sweet in this moment, the last thing I want to do is leave her. But I must.

With an ache in my chest, I turn away and make for the door. Then, just before it swings shut behind me, my sensitive ears catch her whispered word:

“Perfect…”

An exceptionally warm day sees winter receding even faster than the Squirrel predicted. The very next day I spy snowdrops pushing through the last layer of snow. The flowers are unbelievably tiny in my hand, but that doesn’t stop me from bending to pick a small bouquet for my Squirrel. I glance up at the sky.

It’s early yet, mid-afternoon. Too soon to go home, but I make my way back to the cabin anyway with a slight spring in my step and a foolish grin on my face as I imagine the way her eyes will light up when I bring her these flowers.

When I get to the clearing though, my good mood disappears, and my blood runs cold.

Something’s off; I sense it at once. The open door. The upset pail in the middle of the yard.

Without stopping to think I drop the flowers and dash forward, gripping my rifle in both hands. That’s when I see them. Hoof prints in the mud and the slush.

A rider. Three riders. The men from before.

Greg Philips’ men.

They were still searching for her?

A quick glance at the ground paints the picture clearly. Their footprints leading up to the door and away again with the tiny distressed footprints of a woman. They pulled her so far and then—her footprints vanish. They picked her up. Set her on one of their horses. And started back down the mountain.

Heidi!

I take off at a run, leaving my horse in the stable. I’ll travel faster on foot.

They left a clear trail. Careless. Not that any attempts to disguise their retreat would have fooled my eyes.

These tracks are an hour old, maybe two. I’m glad I returned home when I did, though I could kick myself for not returning sooner.

Hang in there, Squirrel. Don’t try anything foolish and just hang on.

I’m coming for you!

It’s nearing nightfall when the trail I follow down the mountain begins sloping more gently, leading across the wide yard of an expensive looking manor. It’s quiet and I slip over the fence, keeping to the shadow as I hurry forward, breathless after my long run and drenched in sweat.

The bottom floor of the house shows only a single bright window while the second floor blazes with light. I make for the first story window, following a line of shrubbery low, keeping my eyes and ears open for a patrol. There is none.

Coming upon the window, I press myself against the side of the house and take several seconds to catch my breath. Then I dare a glance inside.

The kitchen. Three men sit around a large table, drinking coffee and congratulating themselves on finally collecting the reward for the master’s wife.

“Money couldn’t have come at a better time. Butch’ll have my hide if I don’t pay up after that last poker game I lost. You?”

“There’s a pocket watch in town I’ve had my eye on, real silver. Think I’ll buy it up and use what’s leftover for a nice steak. What about you, Tom?”

“I’ll be cleaned out after a week at the brothel,” the young man laughs, and the others join in crassly. 

Their callous discussion of how they’ll spend the money they sold my Squirrel for turns my vision red.

Moving on silent footsteps, I slip around to the back door that leads to the kitchen. A quick jiggle of the handle sends it creaking open softly. I wait a minute for someone to come investigate the noise. But it’s gone unnoticed.

They don’t hear my approach; don’t see me until I’m standing in the kitchen doorway. Then one of the younger men looks up from his cup of coffee and manages a short yelp of alarm.

I lunge forward.

The balding man is the only one with any real fighting experience, I determine. He’s quicker than the other two. He grabs the rifle leaning against the table and holds it up to his shoulder to aim a shot at me. Before he can squeeze the trigger, though, I’ve descended upon him, ripping the gun right out of his hands.

I haul back with it to split his skull open, and he ducks just in time. The stalk of the rifle crashes into the beam behind him and splinters all to bits.

I’m lifting the bent barrel in my hand to bring it down on him again, but he’s already running, together with his friends, screaming for the sheriff as they burst out the door and disappear into the night. I let them go.

I didn’t come here for them.

My footsteps are heavy on the stairs. On the way I meet a few women in serving clothes. They gasp at the sight of me and scurry away.

It’s a rich house, well furnished and lit by a hundred candles. The walls are made from carved oak paneling and lined with trite, lifeless paintings of the countryside.

I stalk down the thickly carpeted hall, stopping at every door on the way to throw it open and check inside for the Squirrel. Those that are locked, I kick down with methodical efficiency.

“Heidi!” I bellow as I near the end of the hall. “Heidi!”

A yelp of pain comes from the farthest room. A woman’s voice. The sound raises all the hairs on the back of my neck.

That was the Squirrel.