Marry Me by Susan Kay Law

door and peeled the flap back from the window, hoping for a friendly stray breeze. Even the stingiest fire notched the temperature up, but one could be content with cheese and stale crackers for supper for only so long.
    The air was marginally cooler by the door, and she leaned against the frame. Almost immediately he looked up, his gaze simmering across the space between them for a long moment before he returned his attention to his book.
    He slouched in his chair, which she still expected to shatter beneath his bulk the next time he sat down. The charred remains of the fire that he almost never lit darkened the ground. A burst of wind sent the doorway to his tent flapping.
    He read with furious concentration, shoulders hunched, eyes hidden beneath the wild fringe of his hair. Once in a while she’d see him erupt from his chair and spring across the land at a breakneck pace, as if he couldn’t contain his energy any longer and had to release it in one wild surge. He’d return, sometimes hours later, panting, throw himself down on the bare ground, and fall into a sleep that seemed little more restful than his run.
    But mostly he was just there, relentlessly, impatiently waiting. And unfailingly, as soon as she glanced out the window to see if he was still there, he’d lift his gaze as if somehow alerted to her attention.
    At first it infuriated her. Then it annoyed her. Now he was simply there, as much a part of the landscape as the shivering grass and the stunted box elders atop the next rise.
    As she watched, he balanced his book on his knee, reached over, and grabbed a can out of a nearby crate. Without even looking to see what he’d unearthed, he pried off the lid. He tipped his head back, shook something from the can into his mouth, and chewed while he read.
    Emily frowned. That was no way to have dinner. It had to be exceedingly unhealthful to subsist on tinned food. Not to mention that a man of that size surely required more fuel than most. And Emily believed that proper digestion required both attention to one’s meal and congenial atmosphere and companions. Mr. Sullivan failed on all count
    She reminded herself firmly that it was not her problem. Rather, she should hope that starvation drove him to the nearest city and away from her.
    In any case, her own supper must be nearly done. Heat boiled from the tiny oven when she cranked open the door, carrying the warm scent of biscuits.
    Perfect. It had taken her a few days to get the hang of cooking on the thing, but really, it was a shame there was no one around to admire her skill.
    She’d planned to finish the biscuits over the next couple of days, but they really were best warm. And the pot of stew, made from the rabbit the Blevinses, her new neighbors, had brought her when they came to visit on Sunday, was far more than she could finish in the next few days.
    She grabbed a tin plate, plopped a hefty ladle of stew in the middle, rimmed the edge with a half dozen biscuits, and headed out before she could change her mind.
    He glanced up again the instant she stepped out the door, and she felt the focused intensity of his regard. No emotion, not even curiosity, revealed itself on his face. But then he could have been smiling like a child at Christmas behind that great bush of a beard and she couldn’t tell.
    “Here,” she said when she gained his side, thrusting the plate at him.
    For a long moment she thought he might ignore her completely. Finally he set the book aside. “What’s this?”
    “I made too much. Thought you might like some.”
    His gaze slid up to her. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, handsomely shaped, with lashes as thick as his hair. It was all she could do not to shift under his wary inspection, and she forced her smile wider.
    “Why?” he asked.
    “It’s no more complicated than I told you.” At least she didn’t think it was, and she didn’t want him prodding her into looking any deeper. “You’re a suspicious sort,