For nearly two years, every person she told had responded with a question.
Did you follow internal procedure?
Were you absolutely certain?
Could management have interpreted your behavior differently?
Were you too confrontational?
Did you consider the business consequences?
Coulter asked none of those things.
He simply believed her.
She looked down.
“Thank you.”
He nodded awkwardly.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
Winter arrived hard.
December temperatures dropped below zero at night.
Snow accumulated against the garage doors.
Business slowed, but not catastrophically.
Adeline had planned for it.
Cash reserves.
Vendor timing.
Heating costs.
Seasonal promotions for batteries and cold-weather inspections.
Coulter pretended not to be impressed.
One evening, Adeline burned her palm while helping Eli reposition a radiator hose.
She hissed and pulled back.
Coulter crossed the bay immediately.
“Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Adeline.”
She held out her hand.
He took her wrist.
Carefully.
Not romantically.
Not at first.
He guided her to the sink and ran cool water over the skin.
Five minutes.
Neither spoke.
Adeline watched his face.
Concern looked different on Coulter.
Sharper than affection.
Almost anger.
“At me?”
“What?”
“You look mad.”
“I told Eli to wait until the pressure dropped.”
“It did.”
“Not enough.”
“It’s barely red.”
“Still.”
He realized he was holding her wrist.
Released it.
Adeline dried her hand.
“Thank you.”
Coulter stepped back.
“Yeah.”
For the rest of the evening, he avoided looking at her.
Adeline noticed that too.
The power went out during a February storm.
Nearly half the county lost electricity.
The bay doors were already closed.
Coulter and Adeline had stayed late because two customers’ vehicles needed to be ready the next morning.
When the lights died, the shop became silent.
Then the emergency lantern near the office turned on.
Adeline looked outside.
Snow drove sideways across the lot.
“You driving home in that?” Coulter asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“You?”
“No.”
They lit the wood stove.
Coulter kept emergency logs in the storage shed.
The office slowly warmed.
They sat in the mismatched chairs where they had first shared coffee.
The storm struck the windows.
Adeline wrapped a blanket over her knees.
Coulter stared into the stove.
“Marianne hated snow.”
Adeline looked at him.
“Montana seems inconvenient for that.”
“She was born here.”
“Still hated it.”
“She’d complain from October through April.”
“Then refuse every time I suggested moving.”
“Why?”
“She said she had too many people trained.”
Adeline smiled.
“Sounds practical.”
“She wasn’t.”
“She once bought a goat because she felt sorry for it.”
“What happened?”
“It ate the seat out of my first truck.”
Adeline laughed.
Coulter smiled.
For the first time, he told her about Marianne without grief swallowing the story.
She had been funny.
Bossy.
Bad with directions.
Excellent with people.
Terrible at cooking despite believing otherwise.
She had handled the shop office because Coulter’s father needed help, not because she dreamed of auto repair.
Then she discovered she liked being needed there.
“Were you happy?” Adeline asked.
Coulter looked into the fire.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Adeline appreciated that.
He did not diminish his first marriage to make space for something new.
After a while, Coulter asked: