Neither commented.
The first attempt ended with Jedediah sideways in the sling shouting language that frightened the chickens.
The second got him into the saddle but one strap slipped.
The third worked.
Meadow stood beside the draft horse holding its bridle.
Jedediah sat above her.
For the first time since arriving, he was taller than everyone again.
His hands shook on the reins.
Meadow noticed.
Said nothing.
He looked across the field.
The expression on his face nearly broke her heart.
Freedom.
Not complete.
Not the old version.
Enough.
He nudged the horse.
It walked.
Jedediah laughed.
Not a polite laugh.
Not restrained.
A huge roaring sound that rolled across the prairie.
Meadow started laughing too.
Jedediah circled the yard.
Then went faster.
The horse trotted.
Meadow shouted.
“Slow down!”
He ignored her.
“Jedediah!”
He circled again.
When he finally stopped, his face looked ten years younger.
Meadow stood with both hands on her hips.
“You're an idiot.”
“Yes.”
“You could've fallen.”
“Yes.”
“You scared me.”
That stopped him.
The smile faded slightly.
“Sorry.”
Meadow looked toward him.
She had revealed too much.
She stepped closer to adjust a strap.
Her fingers touched his thigh.
He could not feel it.
They both knew.
Yet Jedediah watched her hand.
Meadow looked up.
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them.
Neither named it.
Not yet.
The chair came in autumn.
Meadow's old kitchen chair cracked beneath her one evening.
Not completely.
One rear joint groaned.
The sound was small.
Meadow froze.
Jedediah heard.
She stood immediately.
His face darkened.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Meadow.”
“Chair's done.”
“I can repair it.”
“I don't need—”
“It was built wrong.”
Her expression sharpened.
“No.”
Jedediah looked confused.
Meadow turned toward the stove.
“Leave it.”
She knew what he thought.
Someone mocked her weight once, therefore the chair mattered.
He didn't understand.
It mattered because everyone always noticed.
At school.
Church.
Town gatherings.
Any chair became a calculation.
Would it hold?
Would it creak?
Would someone laugh?
Samuel had never laughed.
That had been one reason she married him.
But even Samuel had not understood why she always chose the strongest-looking chair near a wall.
Two days later, Jedediah asked for oak.
Then iron straps.
Meadow realized what he was doing.
“Don't.”
“Already started.”
“I said don't.”
Jedediah looked toward her.
“You want me to stop?”
“Yes.”
He placed the tool down.
Actually stopped.
That surprised her.
Meadow stared at the unfinished chair.
Wide seat.
Thick legs.
Reinforced underside.
Beautiful curved back.
“Why?”