Everything past the back fence had vanished.Barn, feedlot, and sky dissolved into the steady fall of flakes.The windmill stood alone with its outline barely visible through the white.
Farther off, a brown smear showed where the cattle would bed down.Montana offered no polite wait for city nerves to settle.
Behind her, the kettle spat on the gas flame and sent ribbons of steam up the wall.She breathed in the kitchen air heavy with beans from the grinder, a faint trace of soap, and the metallic heat from the old oven still cooling after her early bake.
The table had been set for two hours with the blue-check cloth smoothed and two mugs turned upside down to dry.Nothing rushed.Her left thumb swept over the callus on her right palm.The routine now carried its own muscle memory fitted to these acres.
A scrape at the back door made her pulse jump, then slow.Only one person let himself in that quietly.
Titus stepped through with boots scattering dirty slush onto the mat.His coat showed white dust at the shoulders.Jeans darkened at the seams and the brim of his hat already slicked with melt.
He shrugged out of the coat without looking up.His shoulders rolled once in movements that never hurried.Steam rose behind him but did nothing to warm his raw red hands.
She did not turn but tracked him in the window reflection.The set of his mouth stayed firm and the line between his brows never faded even when he laughed.He shed his layers in silence and moved up behind her until his chest grazed her shoulder blades.
His arms slipped around her waist with elbows braced against her hips in an ease born of repetition.His chin rested heavy on her shoulder and his beard scratched over her skin.
“You up before me,” he murmured.His voice carried the first crackle of morning.
Her own exhale fogged the window.“Bad dreams.Could not go back to sleep.”
He made a sound closer to agreement than sympathy.His fingers splayed wider at her belly.Kyla’s shoulders ticked up, then down.Months ago, she would have stiffened at being held with no room to move free.Now she sank back into the frame of him and felt his heart tap slow and deep against her spine.
The kettle clicked and ramped up to a frantic whine.Neither moved to answer it.Snow tapped against the tin over the porch.Even Roscoe had disappeared somewhere off chasing winter rabbits or a forgotten biscuit in the hayloft.
The house stayed near silent except for the muffled whistling and the scraping heat that came up through the old ducts.
Titus pressed a kiss low against her hair.His nose nudged the knot at the crown of her head.“You want breakfast?”
His words carried softer weight this morning, worn down by cold and six straight days working cattle through ice-crusted gates.
“I want more sleep,” she said without turning.“But I will settle for coffee and another hour with the world quiet.”
He squeezed once just above her navel, then let his hands ease apart.His palms lingered.She pressed her head back, not enough to see his eyes, but enough for her breath to catch against his throat.The skin there tasted faintly of soap and the metallic cold of snow.
The kettle’s whistle reached a fever pitch and sliced through the hush.Kyla winced, but Titus only grunted.His hands gathered her tighter as if he refused to let routine interrupt.
“You leave it too long, Chef, and you are cleaning scale for a week.”
She almost laughed, but the instinct caught in her chest.Instead, she slid her hands over his with her knuckles brushing his scarred fingers.
“One minute,” she bargained with her eyes closed.
He let her have it with his chin balanced in the crook of her neck and the slow sync of their breathing claiming its own rhythm.With her eyes shut, she matched him breath for breath.
On the stove, the kettle shrieked on and spilled steam down the stained white enamel.Kyla braced herself to break contact, but for a moment longer she stayed still and let the heat and closeness stretch until she had marked it.This quiet.This man.This landscape outside.
When she finally twisted away, Titus loosened his grip.His fingertips grazed her ribs as she reached for the kettle.He leaned against the counter with hips braced and one boot knocking lightly against hers under the table.
“It is still coming down,” he said.
She poured water over grounds and watched the swirl of dark and lighter while a shiver trailed from her wrist to elbow.“Supposed to stop by afternoon.”
“That is what you said last night.”
She shot him a look, but his mouth showed the tiniest ghost of a smile, the kind only she ever seemed to see.His gaze dropped to her legs, bare feet with the hem of sweatpants tucked up above her ankles and one heel notched onto the other for balance.
Her chest eased open.
