But Ola moved closer and closer to her, and when Granny Jane was killed, Sallie occupied more and more of Ola's thoughts. In the daytime and especially at night, Ola constructed conversations in her head with Sallie, who would listen and understand, not scoffing at or ignoring Ola's complaints about the isolation of the cabin in the Garden deep in the Galiuros. She would talk to her, listen to her, and touch her, and there would be no judgment, only the reciprocation of one whose needs mirrored her own.

So Ola took to riding to the ranch once, occasionally twice, a week when she knew that the men were taken care of and were not yet ready to bring another load of ore down the road. And she would work alongside Sallie, digging the weeds from irrigation ditches, talking and laughing with her, happy to broil in the bright sun, sweated and weary, beginning the ride home in the late afternoon, and arriving at the Garden deep in thought. She enjoyed the company and the warmth, and, best of all, Sallie was glad to see her.

In the early fall of 1917, Sallie told Ola not to visit anymore. It was harvest time, and they would be in the orchard. Soon the townsfolk would come to pick apples and picnic under the trees. Sallie's time would belong to the apples and the orchard. It would be that way until deep into winter, after all the apples had been harvested and cellared.

It had begun to snow in midafternoon, just before the sun set behind Topout Peak. Ola May had spent the last hours of daylight moving wood into the cabin to keep the fire going. It was likely to be a light snow. December snows generally fell light and did not last. But it would do whatever it would do. She did not take chances. She washed out the enameled chamber pot in case she was not able to get out to the privy. She watched the first flakes of snow whirl to the ground in the fading light. She looked at the flakes stuck to her sleeve and tried to catch new ones on her tongue.

As it darkened, the snow turned to sleet. She heard it against the windows and door and roof. She was cooking a rough stew of rabbit she had shot, carrots from the garden, and greens she had gathered on the hunt that had bagged the rabbit. She stayed close to the fire, both for the heat and to save oil in the lamps. The few square feet illuminated and warmed by the fire were a little paradise in the storm. She would later pull the quilt off the bed and wrap herself in it and sleep in front of the fire so that she would wake and be able to restoke the fire as it burned down.