Autumn was leaving.
Winter had begun making promises.
Sarah tucked both hands into her sleeves.
Bess looked up.
“Hungry.”
Martha smiled because mothers sometimes lied with their whole faces.
“We’ll eat when we get home.”
Caleb knew.
He always knew now.
He walked beside her for half a block.
Then said quietly:
“We ain’t got anything.”
Martha kept moving.
“We have potatoes.”
“One.”
“Then we have one potato.”
“For four people.”
“We’ll make soup.”
“With water?”
“With creativity.”
Caleb looked away.
He was old enough to understand humiliation and young enough to be angry about it.
Martha hated that combination.
Across the muddy street, two church women stood outside the dressmaker’s shop.
One whispered.
The other looked directly at Martha.
A pair of ranch hands near the livery laughed at something.
Maybe not her.
Martha no longer cared enough to decide.
Then Caleb stopped.
A man had stepped from beside a flatbed wagon.
Martha recognized him.
Everyone did.
Gideon Cole.
The mountain man from Bitterroot Ridge.
He came to Oak Haven twice a year, sometimes three if weather was strange.
Bought coffee.
Salt.
Kerosene.
Ammunition.
Needles.
Medicine.
Then disappeared north.
Stories followed him.
He had killed a bear with a knife.
Probably false.
He had lived ten days under a fallen tree.
Possibly true.
He had once walked thirty miles through snow carrying a broken trap on one shoulder.
Almost certainly exaggerated.
What was not exaggerated was his size.
Gideon was enormous.
Not heavy.
Dense.
Broad through shoulders and chest, with the kind of strength built by years where mistakes weighed more than pride.
He wore a dark fur-lined coat over rough work clothes, heavy boots, leather gloves, and a brown hat pulled low.
His beard was thick, dark, streaked with gray near the chin.
His face looked as though smiling had never been required.
He crossed the street.
Caleb moved in front of Martha.
Gideon stopped.
The boy’s fists were already clenched.
Martha nearly smiled.
“Caleb.”
“I know.”
“Then move.”
He did not.
Gideon looked at him.
“Good.”
Caleb frowned.
“What?”
“You stand between trouble and your mother.”
His voice was deep but not mocking.
“Good.”
Martha stepped around her son.
“What do you want?”
Gideon looked toward the mercantile.
“You need food.”
Her spine stiffened.
“And you need manners.”
Something moved in his eyes.
“Probably.”
“And a roof.”
Martha’s face hardened.
“If you crossed the street to repeat things I already know, save your breath.”
“Didn't.”
“Then state your business.”
Gideon glanced at children.
Then back.
“I have a cabin.”
Martha stared.
“Congratulations.”
“Four rooms.”
“Two root cellars.”
“Enough wood stacked for winter.”
“Food.”
“Deer.”
“Elk.”
“Potatoes.”
“Carrots.”
“Beans.”
She crossed her arms.
“What exactly are you proposing?”
The mountain man hesitated.
It was small.
But Martha saw it.
A man people in town described as fearless suddenly seemed uncomfortable standing in front of a widow with three hungry children.
“I need a wife.”
Martha laughed.
Hard.
The sound surprised even her.
A nearby horse raised its head.
Gideon waited.
“A wife.”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”