Martha’s expression hardened.
“I did.”
The sheriff knew Amos socially.
Everyone did.
Willow Plains was the kind of town where wrongdoing became complicated the moment the wrong man had cousins.
Martha understood something then.
The deed alone would not be enough.
They needed proof of the larger scheme.
And winter was coming.
September turned colder.
Colum’s legs remained motionless.
Doctor Harrison visited twice.
He tested sensation.
Reflexes.
Pain.
On the second visit, something happened.
Harrison pressed a blunt metal tool against Colum’s left foot.
Colum frowned.
“What?”
“You feel that?”
“Pressure.”
Martha stopped.
The doctor repeated it.
“Here?”
“Nothing.”
He moved upward.
“Here?”
“A little.”
Harrison smiled faintly.
“That wasn’t there last month.”
Colum’s breathing changed.
“Will I walk?”
“Don’t ask questions no honest doctor can answer.”
“Could I?”
“Maybe.”
Martha expected hope.
Instead, fear crossed Colum’s face.
After Harrison left, he became irritable.
“You should be happy.”
“I am.”
“You look furious.”
“I don’t trust maybe.”
Martha sat across from him.
“What do you trust?”
“Things I can do.”
“Then do something.”
“With what?”
She slapped his thigh.
He did not feel it.
“Complain less.”
He glared.
She smiled.
The next morning, Martha built parallel rails between two barn posts.
Colum stared.
“What is that?”
“Something you can do.”
“With useless legs?”
“With useful arms.”
She tied a broad leather sling beneath his hips.
Then rigged a rope pulley.
Colum understood.
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
“This could kill me.”
“You survived Amos.”
“That isn’t persuasive.”
Martha folded her arms.
“You want to sit around waiting for sensation to return?”
“No.”
“Then pull.”
The first attempt lasted twelve seconds.
Colum lifted himself between the rails using his arms.
His legs hung beneath him.
He shook violently.
Then collapsed into the sling.
Martha cheered.
He swore.
They tried again.
Within two weeks, Colum could move from chair to cot independently.
Within a month, he could lift his body high enough to maneuver onto the wagon bench.
He still could not walk.
But he was no longer trapped by every doorway.
The change altered him.
So did Martha.
She had spent years pretending strength meant never needing help.
Colum dismantled that idea without intending to.
He could repair tools from the chair.
Sharpen blades.
Keep accounts.
Design braces.
He taught Martha to survey property lines with chain and compass.
She taught him poultry, preserves, and exactly how much insulting commentary a man could survive before supper disappeared.
They fought constantly.
They laughed more often.