“Got weasels under the floor again,” the warden said with a tired sigh. “Can’t get rid of them. Chewed through half a sack of flour. Buck smells them. Hunting blood.”
Anna heard Mike’s steady steps crossing the room. Then the rustle of a canvas sack being opened.
“Here,” Mike said. “This ought to settle you down.” Something heavy hit the floorboards right above Anna’s head.
The growling stopped at once. Then came loud, eager chewing and crunching. The dog had gone after a chunk of meat Mike had tossed onto the floor. Hunger beat instinct.
“Looks like he’s just hungry from the drive,” Mike said with a short laugh. “Sit down, Vic. Coffee’s getting cold. I’ve got some roasted nuts too.”
Victor stood there for a few seconds. Anna could almost feel his suspicious stare drilling through the floorboards. But the sound of the dog chewing did its work. The inspector gave a grunt, turned away, and sat back down.
“Fine. Weasels, then. Let’s finish the paperwork. I need to make the lower station before dark.”
They stayed another hour. For Anna, it stretched into forever. Her legs went numb, her back ached from the damp earth, but she remained perfectly still, afraid even to blink.
At last stools scraped. The door opened. The starter turned over, and the heavy vehicle growled away until the sound disappeared into the trees. Ten more minutes passed. Only then did the chest scrape aside overhead. The boards lifted, and bright daylight poured into the cellar.
“Come on out,” Mike said.
He held out his big hand. Anna grabbed it with ice-cold, shaking fingers. Mike pulled her up in one motion.
She stood in the middle of the room covered in dirt and wood dust. Her legs barely held her. The strain of the last hour suddenly let go, and in its place came a violent shaking she couldn’t control. Mike went to the washstand, dipped a cup into the water bucket, and handed it to her.
“Drink. It’s over.”
She took the cup in both hands, but they shook so badly the water sloshed onto the floor. She tried to swallow, choked, and set the tin cup down with a dull clank.
Then she turned, rushed to the bunk, and began gathering her few belongings in jerky, frantic motions. An old wooden comb. Spare wool socks. A bar of soap. She grabbed them and tried to wrap them in a clean piece of cloth, but her fingers were too clumsy. The knots came loose. Things fell to the floor. She picked them up and tried again.
Tears ran down her dirty cheeks. Not loud sobbing—just the quiet, desperate crying of someone at the end of her rope.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered, breathless, shoving the soap into the bundle. “I can’t. I saw his boots through the crack. I heard that dog tearing at the boards. He didn’t believe you. He’ll come back. Tomorrow, next week—it doesn’t matter. He’ll come back with deputies.”
She yanked the cloth tight around the bundle. “There’s probably a reward out for me. They’ll search every square mile with dogs. If they find me here, they’ll put cuffs on you right beside me. You’ll do years because of some runaway convict you didn’t even know.”
She turned to Mike, eyes full of real fear and guilt. “I won’t let that happen. I’m leaving now. I’ll go over the ridge—there are old mine shafts there. I’ll hide out. If they catch me, I’ll say I broke into your place while you were out checking traps. I’ll say I stole food. I’ll say you never knew.”
Anna clutched the bundle to her chest and took a step toward the door. Mike stood in the middle of the room with his hands in the pockets of his canvas jacket. He watched her panic without interrupting.
When she drew even with him, he simply took one hand out of his pocket. With a quiet, effortless motion, he caught her wrist. With the other hand he took the bundle she was clutching. Anna tried to pull it back, but the difference in strength was too great. Mike took the cloth bundle and tossed it into the far corner. It hit the wall and came apart.
“Sit down.” His voice was quiet, but there was such solid force in it that her knees nearly gave way. He guided her to the edge of the bunk. He stayed standing in front of her, blocking the window.
Then Mike reached into the deep pocket of his jacket again. He paused a few seconds, as if making a final decision that would change the rest of his life. Then he opened his hand.
In his palm lay two rings. Not gold. Not silver. They were carved from dark, dense wood. Anna had seen him working on them through long winter evenings by the stove, shaving them carefully with a knife, then sanding them smooth as glass. They shone with beeswax rubbed into the grain, warm from his hand.
Anna stopped crying. She stared at the two wooden circles, not understanding at first. Mike picked up one ring. Then he crouched in front of her so their faces were level. He took her shaking, dirt-streaked left hand. His fingers were rough, but the touch was careful.
He looked straight into her eyes. In his gray eyes there was no fear of the law, no hesitation. Only a man’s steady resolve.
“Listen to me,” he said, speaking each word clearly so she would remember it forever. “The woman who escaped prison—Anna Sokolova—died in the snow under that fallen pine last December.”
He slid the warm, smooth wooden ring onto her ring finger. It fit perfectly. “And here, in my woods, my wife began her life. There’s no courthouse out here. No prosecutor. No paperwork. Just you, me, and these mountains.”
Mike put the second ring on his own hand and closed both of his hands around hers. “So before God, before this land, and before the sky over us—be my wife.”
Anna stared at the ring on her hand. The wood held the warmth of his body. His words cut a clean line between her and the life she had fled. No numbers. No prison. No fear of dogs. The last of her resistance gave way.
She leaned forward, pressed her face into his chest, which smelled of smoke, pine resin, and tobacco, and wrapped both arms around his neck. She cried hard. But these were no longer tears of panic or despair. They were tears of relief, of safety so complete it almost hurt.
Mike wrapped his strong arms around her and stroked her tangled, dirt-streaked hair. Outside, the spring woods rustled, hiding them from the rest of the world—a world that no longer held power over them.
1976 arrived quietly. In the woods, time was measured not by calendars but by snow depth, thaw lines, and animal tracks. Anna had lived there nearly two years. In that time she learned to read sign in wet soil, to judge weather by the color of the sky at sunset, and to stop fearing the deep dark of night. The wooden ring on her finger had darkened with work, but it fit as if it had always been there…
