The words escaped before he seemed ready.
He froze.
Eleanor's eyes widened.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then his face became red.
“I didn't mean to—”
She reached toward his cheek.
“Caleb.”
He stopped.
She smiled through tears.
“I love you too.”
For a moment, he stared.
Then his expression crumpled.
“Do you?”
Eleanor laughed softly.
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes.
Then whispered, “I never thought I'd hear that.”
She kissed his cheek.
“Get used to it.”
He laughed through tears.
Then helped arrange the final preparations for the journey.
For nineteen years, he'd lived under the shadow of a man who believed he could erase inconvenient people.
Now he was traveling toward the truth with a woman who knew exactly what it meant to be treated as though she didn't matter.
They didn't know what waited in Denver.
But they were no longer alone.
The first two days passed without incident.
They traveled through snowy valleys, following established routes and stopping when Eleanor needed rest. Caleb refused to hurry, even when the weather seemed favorable, and Eleanor gradually learned to trust that he wouldn't treat her physical limitations as inconveniences.
At one roadside inn, the proprietor looked toward her and frowned.
“We don't have furniture suitable for someone her size.”
Eleanor felt the familiar embarrassment rise.
Before she could apologize, Caleb answered calmly.
“We brought what she needs. We're only asking whether there's a room with a wide enough entrance and a safe ground-floor arrangement.”
The proprietor hesitated.
Then looked toward the portable chair secured in the wagon.
For a moment, he seemed uncertain.
Finally, he nodded.
“We can clear the back room.”
Eleanor waited for a rude remark.
None came.
The innkeeper's wife appeared, examined the space, and suggested moving a small table to make the doorway easier to navigate.
She didn't treat Eleanor like a spectacle.
She simply helped solve a practical problem.
That evening, while Caleb tended the horses, Eleanor sat beside the window and watched snow drift through the village street.
She felt tired.
Her body ached from travel.
But she also felt something she hadn't experienced in years.
Freedom.
She'd chosen the journey.
She'd chosen the man traveling beside her.
And she was pursuing the truth about property her family had left her.
For most of her marriage to Henry, she wasn't permitted to make decisions about her own movements.