“Say it again.”
Amos shifted in the saddle.
“Everyone heard about your accident.”
“You told everyone.”
“I heard.”
“Before the logging crew found me?”
Amos’s jaw tightened.
Martha understood.
“How would you know he was supposed to die?”
Amos laughed.
Nervously.
“You’re both crazy.”
He turned his horse.
Colum called after him.
“Your left shoulder still hurt?”
Amos froze again.
Colum continued.
“From when I broke it on Black Ridge.”
Martha’s eyes widened.
Amos rode away.
That was the first mistake Amos could not undo.
Because Martha was not alone this time.
Three neighbors stood near the barn.
They had heard every word.
Winter closed harder.
By Christmas, Willow Plains had seen more snow than anyone could remember.
The Higgins farm became important almost by accident.
Colum’s windbreak system preserved hay.
Martha’s oversized root cellar remained stocked.
Her smokehouse survived because she had reinforced the roof.
People came seeking food.
Martha sold what she could spare.
Gave away what desperation demanded.
Colum kept records.
Not because they expected repayment.
Because he knew communities forgot generosity and remembered debt incorrectly.
“No interest,” Martha told him.
“I know.”
“No one loses land over this.”
“I know.”
“If they can’t pay—”
“I know.”
“You always say that.”
“Because you repeat yourself.”
She threw a potato at him.
He caught it.
The parlor erupted in laughter.
It was the first Christmas after Elias’s death that Martha did not feel only absence.
That frightened her.
Because Colum was becoming more than a responsibility.
She noticed small things.
How his beard curled slightly near his jaw after washing.
How he never asked her to lift him unless absolutely necessary.
How his hand rested at the small of her back whenever she leaned too far over the stove, not because she needed support, but because he liked touching her.
One night she caught him looking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Colum’s eyes moved over her dark-green dress.
Then back to her face.
“Because I enjoy it.”
Martha laughed awkwardly.
“Enjoy what?”
“You.”
Her breath changed.
People had called Martha impressive.
Hardworking.
Strong.
Dependable.
Large.
Never simply desirable.
Not since Elias.
She looked away.
“Your fever back?”
Colum smiled.
“No.”
“You hit your head?”
“No.”
“Then stop looking.”
“Want me to?”
The question was sincere.
Martha looked back.
“No.”
Colum’s expression softened.
“Then I won’t.”
That night, Martha lay awake longer than necessary.
The next morning, Colum tried standing.
Not fully.
Harrison had built crude braces.
Colum locked his knees mechanically between the parallel rails Martha had built months earlier.
His arms did most of the work.