He added, “Might be permanent.”
“Could improve?”
“Maybe.”
“Then why’d they tell everyone you were dead from the waist down?”
Colum’s jaw tightened.
“Easier story.”
Martha looked at him.
“For who?”
He did not answer.
That night, Martha slept badly.
Not because of Colum.
Because Amos’s words would not leave her.
Half a man.
Twice the woman.
The whole town would hear by morning.
Maybe they already had.
She imagined laughter inside the saloon.
Someone making jokes about whether the cot survived.
Someone wondering which of them needed the larger meal.
Martha turned over angrily.
At sunrise, she found Colum trying to move from the cot to the floor.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting outside.”
“How?”
He braced on his arms.
“I’ll crawl.”
“You’ll tear your knees open.”
“Can’t feel them.”
“That is not the advantage you think it is.”
Colum glared.
“I need air.”
Martha stared.
Then sighed.
By breakfast she had constructed a crude transfer board from one of Elias’s old fence planks.
By noon she had rigged an old kitchen chair with wider runners and leather straps.
It was ugly.
Unstable.
And better than the floor.
Colum looked at it.
“What is that?”
“Your dignity.”
“It looks like a butchered chair.”
“Then crawl.”
He stared.
Martha folded her arms.
Colum used the chair.
The first three days were miserable.
He hated needing help.
Martha hated being expected to provide it.
They argued about everything.
How much water he drank.
How often he needed to change position.
Where his boots should go despite having no use for them.
Whether Martha’s stew contained too much salt.
That final argument nearly ended with the stew pot thrown through a window.
“You put enough salt in this to preserve a buffalo.”
“You want to cook?”
“I can’t reach the stove.”
“Then suffer quietly.”
Colum took another spoonful.
Martha noticed.
“You keep eating.”
“Survival.”
“You had seconds.”
“Strategic planning.”
She almost smiled.
The fourth evening brought a thunderstorm.
August rain swept across the plains in gray curtains.
Martha had spent most of the afternoon securing loose shingles over the barn.
By the time she returned to the house, her dress was soaked and her arms trembled with exhaustion.
Colum sat on the iron cot.
His chair rested two feet away.
A tin cup stood on a small table beside him.
Martha dropped into her rocking chair.
“Don’t speak.”
Colum raised an eyebrow.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
She closed her eyes.
Rain battered the windows.
Colum’s throat was dry.
He looked at the cup.
Martha’s eyes remained shut.
He stretched.
His fingers grazed the rim.
The cup moved.
He reached farther.
His balance shifted.
Colum cursed.
The cup crashed onto the floor.
Water spread across the boards.
Colum froze.
Martha opened her eyes.
For several seconds, neither spoke.