“Your husband had taste in tools.”
“He did.”
Martha leaned against workbench.
“Jealous?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“None?”
Gideon thought.
“Maybe that he knew you younger.”
Her expression softened.
“You know me longer now.”
“Good.”
“And better.”
He looked at her.
“Much.”
She stepped closer.
Age had changed both.
Gideon gray through beard.
Martha softer.
Children nearly grown.
Desire had not disappeared.
It had changed from surprise into language.
She touched his vest.
“You still stare.”
“Yes.”
“You're supposed to deny.”
“Waste.”
She laughed.
“Why?”
“You know.”
“Say.”
Gideon sighed.
“Beautiful.”
“More.”
“Bossy.”
She slapped his chest lightly.
He caught her hand.
“Kiss me.”
“That's better.”
He did.
Caleb walked into shed.
“Good Lord.”
Martha laughed into Gideon’s shoulder.
“Privacy,” Caleb complained.
“This is our shed,” Gideon said.
“I regret calling you Pa.”
Gideon smiled for rest of day.
Sarah married first.
A schoolteacher from Helena named Thomas Gray.
Gideon distrusted him because his hands were clean.
Martha reminded him not everyone needed calluses.
Thomas proved kind.
They moved to Oak Haven.
Sarah became teacher too.
Bess never married.
She ran mail route for three counties and scandalized half state by wearing trousers while riding.
Martha thought this excellent.
Caleb became carpenter.
Beds.
Of course.
He built furniture throughout Montana.
His best-known pieces were children’s beds with high rails and smooth joints.
Martha knew exactly where design came from.
One day Caleb brought his own son to mountain cabin.
A six-year-old named Arthur Gideon Higgins.
The names hit both men.
Gideon cleared throat.
Caleb pretended not notice.
Martha did.
She cried openly.
By sixty, Martha moved slower.
Her knees hurt.
Gideon’s shoulder ached in cold.
They hired younger hands.
Cabin expanded.
One root cellar became two storage rooms.
A proper guesthouse was built near creek.
The original four beds remained.
Martha refused to replace them.
When grandchildren visited, they slept there.
One winter night Martha sat on edge of first bed Gideon built for her.
He stood in doorway.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She touched wood.
“Remember?”
“Yes.”
“You thought I would say no.”
“I thought probably.”
“Then why build?”
He shrugged.
“Hope.”
She looked up.
“You never said that.”
“Didn't ask.”
Martha smiled.
“What did you hope?”
“That you’d come.”
“Before meeting me?”
“I had seen you.”
“When?”
“Town.”
“Many times.”
Her eyes widened.
“You knew me?”
“Seen.”
“Not knew.”
“When?”
“Years.”
Martha stared.
Gideon looked uncomfortable.
“Explain.”
He sighed.
“I saw you outside church once carrying Bess and two baskets.”
“Another time at creek washing clothes.”
“Saw you argue with wagon driver who tried overcharge widow.”
“That was Mrs. Kerr.”