For an instant
she thought Roaring Bill Wagstaff was about to make the colossal
mistake of trying to kiss her.
But he set her gently on her feet and opened the door. And by the time
he had his heavy outer clothes off and the fires started up he was
talking whimsically about their Indian neighbors, and Hazel breathed
more freely. The clearest impression that she had, aside from her
brief panic, was of his strength. He had run with her as easily as if
she had been a child.
After that they went out many times together. Bill took her hunting,
initiated her into the mysteries of rifle shooting, and the
manipulation of a six-shooter. He taught her to walk on snowshoes,
lightly over the surface of the crusted snow, through which otherwise
she floundered. A sort of truce arose between them, and the days
drifted by without untoward incident, Bill tended to his horses,
chopped wood, carried water. She took upon herself the care of the
house. And through the long evenings, in default of conversation, they
would sit with a book on either side of the fireplace that roared
defiance to the storm gods without.
And sometimes Hazel would find herself wondering why Roaring Bill
Wagstaff could not have come into her life in a different manner.
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