Martha closed her eyes.
One breath.
Then another.
When she opened them, Gideon was still there.
Not urging.
Not bargaining.
Waiting.
She turned toward Caleb.
“Run to the shack.”
His eyes widened.
“Ma?”
“Blankets.”
“Pot.”
“Your father’s tools.”
“Everything we can carry.”
Caleb looked at Gideon.
Then her.
“You sure?”
“No.”
That startled him.
Martha lowered her voice.
“But go.”
He ran.
Gideon said nothing.
Twenty-five minutes later, Oak Haven began shrinking behind them.
Martha sat in the back of Gideon’s wagon with the children pressed close.
The climb grew colder every mile.
Sarah and Bess tucked beneath Martha’s arms.
Caleb sat beside her, pretending he did not need warmth until Martha pulled him under the edge of her shawl too.
Gideon drove from the front bench.
He looked back occasionally.
Not often.
The road narrowed.
Pines thickened.
The town vanished.
Martha began to understand why people called Gideon a mountain man.
The country changed around him.
Civilization did not disappear all at once.
It simply became less useful.
Wagon ruts narrowed.
Telephone lines were nonexistent.
No church steeple.
No chimney smoke except distant ranches.
Just forest.
Water.
Stone.
Cold.
By late afternoon, snow began.
Not heavy.
Enough.
Bess fell asleep against Martha’s chest.
Sarah whispered:
“Ma?”
“Yes?”
“Are we married now?”
Martha almost choked.
“No.”
“Then when?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do I call him Pa?”
“No.”
Caleb said immediately.
Martha looked at him.
The boy stared toward Gideon.
“No.”
Martha touched his shoulder.
“You don’t call anyone anything you don’t mean.”
Caleb looked surprised.
She wondered if Gideon heard.
His shoulders did not move.
Hours later, they rounded a bend.
The cabin appeared.
Martha forgot to breathe.
It was not a cabin the way she imagined.
Not a tiny trapper hut.
A large log house stood beside a creek with a stone chimney sending smoke into evening air.
There was a barn.
Fenced paddock.
Wood stacked taller than Martha.
A vegetable cellar built into the hill.
Lantern light glowed behind glass windows.
“That's yours?”
Gideon glanced back.
“Yes.”
Caleb whispered:
“Lord.”
Gideon looked almost offended.
“It isn't palace.”
Martha stared.
“It is compared with where we slept yesterday.”
He went quiet.
Inside, the children stopped acting tired the moment they smelled food.
Venison stew simmered on stove.
Bread sat under a cloth.
Potatoes roasted near coals.
Sarah’s eyes widened.
Bess simply said:
“Food.”
Martha looked at Gideon.
“You expected us.”
“I prepared.”
“That isn’t same thing.”
“No.”
He took coats.
Not hers.
He waited until she removed it herself.
Good.
Martha noticed.
Caleb noticed everything.
Gideon served children first.
That mattered too.
Bess ate too quickly.
Martha reached to slow her.
Gideon quietly moved bowl away for several seconds.
“Small bites.”
Bess stared.
He stared back.
The toddler looked offended.