When June’s father discovered she was pregnant, he didn’t ask who the father was. He just dragged her into the wilderness and gave her away like livestock. But the man he gave her to was what anyone expected. He didn’t speak much, just pointed to the cabin door, then walked back toward the shed like she was no different from the sack of feed her father had left him along with her.

June stood there, her wrists still red from the rope burn, her eyes swollen from the slap she hadn’t seen coming. Her father hadn’t given her a final word, only a grunt. Then he rode off back down the mountain trail without looking back. She was barely 17, barefoot in snow, belly beginning to swell, and now left in the middle of nowhere with a man twice her size who hadn’t said a single word. The cabin door creaked open. Warmth hit her face.
Fire light danced from the hearth across the wooden floor. A cot in one corner, a rough table, a basin, hooks on the wall with furs, a shotgun over the mantle. Then she turned. He was gone. June stepped in slowly, the door shutting behind her by the wind’s hand, not his. She sank down by the fire, clutching her arms around her middle. Her father hadn’t asked who the father was. He hadn’t asked anything.
Just marched into her room, pulled her out by the hair, and stuffed her into the wagon. “It’s your shame,” he’d growled. “You’ll live with it or die with it. I won’t have your sin rotting this house.” “And then the ride, hours, no food, no stop, only snow and silence, and the sound of her own heart breaking in her ears.
Now the only thing breaking was the firewood in the hearth. Then the sound of heavy boots coming back up the porch. She didn’t move. He opened the door with a push of his shoulder, taller than she remembered. Broad shoulders under a wolf pelt, thick beard, dark eyes. He glanced at her once, just once, then walked to the fire, tossed down two rabbits, and started skinning them without a word. She stared at him. He didn’t glance back. Finally, her voice cracked.
What’s your name? He didn’t look up. I said, “Rook.” Just that, a flat word. Then silence again, thick and awkward. Her fingers trembled in her lap. “What do you want from me?” she asked, staring now. Still no eye contact. He gutted one of the rabbits. “I didn’t ask for you,” he muttered. The words hit like a slap.
June felt the sting in her chest, but she bit it down. She de cried enough that morning. She wouldn’t give him the tears now. She laid down on the floor beside the fire that night. He hadn’t offered the cot and she didn’t dare take it. Her hands curled around her belly. She hadn’t told anyone yet, but she felt it already.
The tiny fluttering inside her that didn’t come from hunger or fear. The life growing in her. the only thing she had left. The next few days passed in silence. Rurk left before dawn, returned after dusk, always with meat or wood or both. She never saw where he went, only heard the sound of axe striking tree, gunfire in the woods, birds scattering.
He never touched her, never asked questions, didn’t even look at her long. June cleaned because she didn’t know what else to do. Cooked what little she could, though her hands were clumsy from lack of practice. Her father hadn’t let her near the hearth, said that was her mother’s job till the day she died. It was on the fifth morning that she saw the blood. It stained the front of her dress when she woke.

Her scream brought him in from outside, snow on his shoulders, axe in hand. “I’m bleeding,” she whispered, voice shrill. It’s too early. I can’t. I don’t know. He moved fast, tossed the axe down, came to her side, looked once, then swept her up in his arms, and carried her to the cot without asking permission.

June stood there, her wrists still red from the rope burn, her eyes swollen from the slap she hadn’t seen coming. Her father hadn’t given her a final word, only a grunt. Then he rode off back down the mountain trail without looking back. She was barely 17, barefoot in snow, belly beginning to swell, and now left in the middle of nowhere with a man twice her size who hadn’t said a single word. The cabin door creaked open. Warmth hit her face.
Fire light danced from the hearth across the wooden floor. A cot in one corner, a rough table, a basin, hooks on the wall with furs, a shotgun over the mantle. Then she turned. He was gone. June stepped in slowly, the door shutting behind her by the wind’s hand, not his. She sank down by the fire, clutching her arms around her middle. Her father hadn’t asked who the father was. He hadn’t asked anything.
Just marched into her room, pulled her out by the hair, and stuffed her into the wagon. “It’s your shame,” he’d growled. “You’ll live with it or die with it. I won’t have your sin rotting this house.” “And then the ride, hours, no food, no stop, only snow and silence, and the sound of her own heart breaking in her ears.
Now the only thing breaking was the firewood in the hearth. Then the sound of heavy boots coming back up the porch. She didn’t move. He opened the door with a push of his shoulder, taller than she remembered. Broad shoulders under a wolf pelt, thick beard, dark eyes. He glanced at her once, just once, then walked to the fire, tossed down two rabbits, and started skinning them without a word. She stared at him. He didn’t glance back. Finally, her voice cracked.
What’s your name? He didn’t look up. I said, “Rook.” Just that, a flat word. Then silence again, thick and awkward. Her fingers trembled in her lap. “What do you want from me?” she asked, staring now. Still no eye contact. He gutted one of the rabbits. “I didn’t ask for you,” he muttered. The words hit like a slap.
June felt the sting in her chest, but she bit it down. She de cried enough that morning. She wouldn’t give him the tears now. She laid down on the floor beside the fire that night. He hadn’t offered the cot and she didn’t dare take it. Her hands curled around her belly. She hadn’t told anyone yet, but she felt it already.

The tiny fluttering inside her that didn’t come from hunger or fear. The life growing in her. the only thing she had left. The next few days passed in silence. Rurk left before dawn, returned after dusk, always with meat or wood or both. She never saw where he went, only heard the sound of axe striking tree, gunfire in the woods, birds scattering.
He never touched her, never asked questions, didn’t even look at her long. June cleaned because she didn’t know what else to do. Cooked what little she could, though her hands were clumsy from lack of practice. Her father hadn’t let her near the hearth, said that was her mother’s job till the day she died. It was on the fifth morning that she saw the blood. It stained the front of her dress when she woke.
Her scream brought him in from outside, snow on his shoulders, axe in hand. “I’m bleeding,” she whispered, voice shrill. It’s too early. I can’t. I don’t know. He moved fast, tossed the axe down, came to her side, looked once, then swept her up in his arms, and carried her to the cot without asking permission.