Page 19 of The Mountain Man's Prize

Beau

She'sbeautiful in the late afternoon light, her belly swollen with our child, her hands gentle as they tend the herbs she's planted beside the cabin. Six months since the storm brought her to me, and still I find myself watching her like this—silent, breath caught in my throat, afraid to blink in case she disappears. Her hair is longer now, falling in waves past her shoulders, catching copper highlights in the sun. She's humming something as she works, a melody I don't recognize but have come to associate with contentment. My pregnant wife—not by any legal document, but by something deeper, more primal, more true. The wooden ring I carved sits on her finger, polished by daily wear, a visible symbol of promises we've made without witnesses. The mountain is enough witness for us.

I lean against the doorframe, content just to observe her. She's wearing one of my old flannel shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the buttons straining slightly across her growing belly. Beneath it, a pair of leggings we bought during our single trip into town three months back. That day had been a revelation—her hand firm in mine as we navigated the small mountain community, her easy smiles at curious locals, her certainty when she told the shopkeeper she lived "up on the north ridge with my husband."

No hesitation. No longing glances at phones or computers or roads leading back to her old life. When we returned home—her word, not mine—she'd taken a deep breath of mountain air and said, "I missed this place." In that moment, I knew she was truly mine. That the mountain had claimed her as surely as it had claimed me.

The seasons have turned since then, spring blossoming into summer, summer mellowing into early fall. With each passing month, we've settled deeper into our life together, finding rhythms and routines that feel ancient, as if we've always lived this way. She's transformed the cabin with small touches—curtains sewn from fabric we found in town, wild flowers in jars on the table, herbs hanging to dry from the kitchen rafters. The space that once felt utilitarian, a mere shelter against the elements, now feels like a home.

And me? I've been transformed too. The constant vigilance, the ever-present tension that had been my companion for five years, has eased. I sleep deeper with her beside me. Laugh more easily. Find joy in simple moments—teaching her to split wood, watching her delight when she successfully starts a fire, holding her close under starlit skies.

The biggest changes came when we discovered she was pregnant. Three months after the storm, she'd woken one morning and rushed outside to be sick in the bushes. I'd followed, concerned, only to find her sitting in the dirt afterward, a stunned expression on her face.

"Beau," she'd said, looking up at me with wide eyes. "I think...I think I'm pregnant."

The world had tilted beneath my feet, terror and joy warring in my chest. A child. Our child. A tiny, vulnerable being who would depend on us completely. On me—a man with violence in his blood, with hands that had dealt death, with a father whose legacy was pain and fear.

She'd seen the panic in my eyes, risen to wrap her arms around me, risen to wrap her arms around me, pressing her face to my chest.

"You're not him," she'd whispered fiercely, reading my fears without me voicing them. "You will never be him. This child will know only love from you, Beau. I know it in my soul."

Her faith in me had been staggering, humbling. And as the weeks passed, as her body changed to accommodate our growing child, I found myself believing her. Found myself placing a gentle hand on her belly each night, whispering promises to the tiny life within. Found myself building a cradle from cedar wood, carving small toys from pine, planning expansions to the cabin to make room for three instead of two.

Now I watch as she straightens, one hand pressing against her lower back, the other cradling her belly. She notices me then, turns with a smile that still steals my breath.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asks, brushing dirt from her hands.

"Not long enough," I answer truthfully. "I could watch you forever."

A blush still colors her cheeks when I say things like this, even after all these months. It delights me, this power to affect her with just words.

"Well, come help me up instead of just watching," she says, extending a hand. "Your child is making it difficult to bend these days."

I cross to her in three strides, taking her hand but using my other arm to scoop her up entirely, cradling her against my chest. She laughs, the sound bright and clear in the mountain air.

"I said help me up, not carry me like a princess," she protests, though her arms loop around my neck, belying her words.

"Maybe I like carrying you," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Maybe I like feeling your heart beat against mine."

She softens in my arms, her head resting on my shoulder. "You're getting poetic in your old age, mountain man."

"I'm thirty-four," I remind her with a chuckle. "Hardly ancient."

"Mmm, but you're wise," she teases, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. "Like a mountain sage."

I carry her into the cabin, setting her gently on the new couch we built together from a fallen pine. The main room is warm from the cookstove where dinner simmers—venison stew with vegetables from our garden. Home. So different from the stark shelter it was a year ago.

"How's the ankle today?" she asks, nodding toward my right leg. The trap wound healed months ago, but still aches sometimes before storms.

"Fine," I say, sitting beside her, lifting her feet into my lap to massage them. She sighs with pleasure as my thumbs press into her arches. "How's our baby treating you?"

"Active," she says, a hand resting on her belly. As if on cue, a visible ripple moves across her belly. "See?"

I place my hand over the movement, still awed by the miracle growing beneath her skin. A baby. My baby. Our baby. The thought fills me with equal parts terror and fierce protectiveness.

"I finished the crib today," I tell her, continuing to massage her swollen feet. "Just needs the finish applied."

"Can I see it?" Her eyes light up with excitement.

---