Sweet Boundless by Kristen Heitzmann

machinery he sometimes hauled but enough to give the horses trouble.
    He hadn’t yet equipped his wheelers with the sharp steel spikes on their shoes called caulks. But he did have the chain. Quillan nodded to himself. He’d rough-lock the wagon. Removing the chain from where he’d draped it in readiness, he brought it to the rear wheel. He wrapped the wheel with the links square in cross-section, then fastened it to another chain connected to the front axle.
    Carefully he led the team forward until the rear wheel locked. He checked the tightness, then climbed up onto the box and took up the reins. He could feel Carina’s eyes on him and turned. “Keep an eye on the chain. If the rough-lock breaks, we’re in for a wild ride.”
    She looked down at the chain and back. “How does it work?”
    “The chain grips the snow. The wheel won’t turn. Makes it hard to pull even downhill.” He slapped the reins and the horses started forward. They inched down the hill, the wheelers putting their backs into both pulling and holding the weight of the wagon back. The leaders maneuvered under Quillan’s guidance.
    At the first leveling Quillan let them blow. He saw Carina’s shoulders relax and realized she was as tense as he. He jumped down and checked the chains all along their length. A broken chain could mean disaster. He stopped beside the box and reached up. Gripping Carina’s waist, he swung her down. “Can you make us some lunch? I’m going to scout ahead, see how the road looks.”
    She nodded.
    That was settled, but . . . He hooked his hands onto his hips. “Thanks for leading the team while I shoveled.”
    Her eyes were darkly luminous, sucking him in. “You’re welcome.”
    His steps away were firm and purposeful.
    Carina threw up her hands. How was she supposed to make lunch with no stove and no pot and no . . . She turned suddenly and searched the roadside with her eyes. Everything was changed in the snow. But it couldn’t be far. It was just past the summit when her mule Dom had taken ill and she had shouldered his load.
    She pressed her palms to her temples trying to remember, to recognize the tree she had thought would be a landmark for her to find the things she left there. Was it that pine by the bend where Quillan was just turning? She took the shovel and followed, then stopped. She would need a fire.
    Quickly she dug down to the dirt in the middle of the road, then assembled the wood and got a fire started. The wood Quillan brought had stayed dry under the tarp, and it was well seasoned to light quickly and burn well. She stoked it into a steady blaze that would hold until she got back. Then she went in search of her treasures.
    Amazingly, they were there. The iron pot and lid and the dented kettle salvaged from her wagonload of goods that Quillan had sent down the mountain. She dug the lid free from the snow and held it up exuberantly. Grazie, Signore!
    By the time Quillan returned from scouting, she had sausages sizzling in the iron pot with garlic and onions. Quillan strode up, taking in the scene, arms slack and puffs of white bursting from his parted lips. He was weary, she could tell. Would he be pleased with her efforts?
    The iron pot sat directly on the coals and she worked quickly with the stick to turn the sausages and keep them from blackening. It was the best she could do without the proper utensils. All she had found was a leather-sheathed knife under the driver’s side of the box. That worked well enough for slicing the onions, but little more.
    It wasn’t perfect, but since coming to Crystal she’d learned to take what she could get and make the most of it. Now she used the edge of a blanket to grip the pot and remove it from the fire. It hissed and steamed when she set it on the snowy road. Only then did she brave Quillan’s eyes.
    They held a mixture of wonder and irritation. But he swallowed whatever complaint had been forming and squatted next to the fire, holding his gloved hands