That made him laugh out loud.

She scowled to herself. “Where are we now?”

He put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face away from himself. “North.” Another gentle push. “West.” And another, so that she was directly facing him. “South.”

Martha realized it was light enough now to see his shape. “Five minutes at this pace and we’re at the strawberry fields. Or that way”—he turned—“and we’ll be in the village in twenty. But it’s steep.”

“It’s almost a sheer drop,” Martha said. “I grew up on this mountain too, remember. I thought you wanted to see the sunrise. Which way is that?”

“East,” he said, and her hand came up of its own volition and pushed him.

“All right.” He laughed. “All right. That way.”

“You said that was the trail to the strawberry fields. Or is it Eagle Rock you’re thinking of?”

—

Daniel saw the idea come to her, too late.

Of course she would jump to the conclusion that he was taking her to Eagle Rock. He cursed himself for his lack of foresight because he was very sure of one thing: He would not take Martha Kirby there. Not now, not ever, if he could help it. Eagle Rock would always make him think of Jemima on a hot summer’s day when he and Lily had been Birdie’s age. Jemima with her clothes pulled open and splotches of color on her exposed breasts, and the smell of sex on her, as pungent as tar. Liam Kirby had slipped away, but Daniel had seen him too, the copper flash of his hair in the sun. His daughter’s hair was a deeper color, but it flashed too when the sun touched it.

She took a step back as if she feared him suddenly.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Daniel said. “Nothing at all. But there’s not time enough to get to Eagle Rock.”

He leaned forward and kissed her, a fleeting kiss meant to reassure, but the curve of her lower lip fit exactly between his, and what was there to do but kiss her properly? Pull her up against him and kiss her like he meant it. Because he did. God help him, he was completely besotted.

For the smallest part of a second she was stiff, and then she relaxed against him and a little sound came up out of her throat, surprise and pleasure. Whatever she had been doing with that idiot of a fiancé, this was new to her, and she liked being kissed as much as Daniel liked kissing her.

When he let her go they were both gasping. She pressed the fingers of one hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise, but nothing of unhappiness there. The beginning of a smile, more like.

“The sunrise from my front porch,” he said. “We can still get there in time if we hurry.”

Now she was smiling, but still trying to hide it. She managed a nod. Daniel took her hand and set off for home.

In the first faint wash of light they passed through stands of beech and ash, witch hobble and ferns just beginning to curl up out of the earth, and came then to the stream that separated the woods from the meadow. Daniel crossed it in three steps almost without looking, and Martha followed his path from rock to rock, her skirts firmly in hand. She was determined to stay on her feet. Such focused attention had another benefit: She had no time to ask questions of herself, or answer them either.

The meadow was just coming to life, clumps of new-growth grass rising up to remind her of a badly shaved chin. Somewhere nearby a frog was singing to itself. Among the tumble of rocks thick with moss, she caught sight of the first trillium and Solomon’s seal shoots, violets and jack-in-the-pulpit. In a matter of days the woods and fields would be full of spring flowers, and there would be livestock grazing in the strawberry fields, the Bonners’ horses and Curiosity’s goats and cows. One of Curiosity’s grandsons would have the job of driving them back and forth from pasture to town and watching the flock during the day. You couldn’t leave animals on the mountain unattended unless you meant to provide for every wildcat, bear, and wolf. Martha realized that she was babbling to herself, and that she was so nervous—so excited—that her hands were trembling.

“Here,” Daniel said. Martha looked up and realized they had come to his place. A small homestead like an island in the meadow. Not made of split logs but framed and shingled, a house that would not look out of place in Johnstown. There was a covered porch along the side that faced the valley. “No dogs?” The Bonners always had dogs, smart and well trained.

“Bounder died,” Daniel said. “The day of the flood I buried him under that beech sapling. I’ll be looking for a pup soon.” He opened the door and stood aside to let her pass, but Martha pretended she didn’t see. She sat down quite deliberately in one of the two chairs on the porch. He laughed softly and went in without her.

“We can’t see the sunrise from inside,” she called.

He was back in a moment with an armful of blankets.

“It’s cold sitting still. Take a couple of these.”

And so they sat, side by side, wrapped in blankets and watched the sun’s light first seep and then pour over the horizon, bringing color back into the world. Shades of gray gave way to every kind of green. The moon, still visible, rested on the long spine of the mountain called Walking Wolf.

“It’s so—pretty is too small a word,” Martha said. “I don’t think there are words to describe this.”

He smiled at her. There were lines at the corners of his eyes, the green of the forest in high summer. His hair was still a shambles, determined to curl though it lacked any length. He had his mother’s hair and much of her expression, but otherwise he was Nathaniel Bonner’s son through and through. Not just his face and build, but the very way he held himself when he was at rest. He was the picture of good health, but for the left arm in its sling, tight against his chest.