Silas wasn’t used to living with someone-he knew that was part of it. And the mask was a bone of contention between them that wouldn’t go away. He hated wearing it, she hated him wearing it, and yet he couldn’t take it off. Revealing himself to her would be a mistake, he was sure of it, and so he tried to deflect, change the subject, make a joke instead. It didn’t always work.

Just that day, she’d been eating her lunch in bed. He still made her take a mid-afternoon nap, even if she protested, like a child, “I’m not tired!” She always slept though, and he would bring her lunch on a tray. He liked seeing that sleepy smile on her face when she woke.

“What is this?” she’d asked, sipping from her spoon. “It’s so good!”

“Elk stew.” He’d had his before bringing hers, but now sat in the chair beside her bed while she ate to keep her company. The chair was a convenience for her nightmares, which came and went, but she liked to fall asleep after a bad dream holding his hand.

“My elk?” Her head lifted, eyes wide.

He raised an eyebrow. “I seem to remember having something to do with bringing him down.”

“Oh sure, take all the credit.” Jolee laughed, spooning another bite. “Just because you tracked him, shot him, dressed him…”

Silas smiled at her teasing. “I admit, it’s the only thing I’ve ever eaten killed by BMW.”

“Does food taste better when you’ve hunted it yourself?” she inquired, drinking her milk.

Big Anna, his Irish Dexter cow, provided them with fresh, whole milk, and the three chickens, which the wolf had been eyeing, he was sure, when she showed up on the hill, gave them eggs for breakfast every day.

“I think it does.” He nodded. “Wait ’til I make the chops.”

“Mmm.” Her eyes lit up. He loved the way they did that whenever she got excited about something. “I haven’t had elk chops in years. My father used to make them.”