“I’ll be out back,” he replied gruffly, heading toward the door.

“Silas, you don’t need to run away.”

Her words made him turn on her, in spite of his best intentions. He snapped. “I’m not running away. There are things to do around here. Food doesn’t appear out of thin air you know.

I’ve got wood to chop.”

He heard her gasp when he slammed the door behind him.

It felt good to be outside and he stalked past the shed, around to the wood pile, grabbing the maul and swinging it at a piece of white oak already set on the block. He set about his task, easing into a steady, lulling pace, working hard, working up a sweat. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt, peeling it off, the cold air feeling painfully good against his skin. Picking up the maul, he got back to work, setting wood, swinging in a full, round arc, hearing that satisfying ‘pop’ as the oak split apart, flying to either side of the block. Lather, rinse, repeat. Splitting wood was like meditation, repetitive that way, giving his mind some freedom.

And he needed some freedom, because ever since he’d followed that elk onto the two-track and found Jolee in the snow, he’d been far too distracted. Life had taught him not to care, not to get too emotionally invested, but this situation had sunk him deep into something he wasn’t ready for and didn’t want. But what choice did he have?

Until this had happened, he’d had a purpose. Spring would be here before long, and his plans would come to full fruition. And he was sure to find Isabelle by then, he reasoned-

although after so many years of looking, even he had to admit to losing some hope. There was a damned lot of land to cover, and he’d explored more of it than probably anyone in the history of the state.