Then obeyed.
Martha nearly laughed.
Caleb ate two bowls.
Then a third after looking at his mother for permission.
She nodded.
Sarah dipped bread into broth and closed her eyes after first bite.
Martha ate slowly.
Her body had become accustomed to scarcity without her acknowledging it.
Rich meat sat heavily.
But wonderfully.
Gideon ate last.
He took less than Martha expected.
That surprised her too.
Afterward, the children’s eyes grew heavy.
Gideon stood.
“Beds.”
Martha’s stomach tightened.
There it was.
The bargain.
Not spoken.
Still present.
Food.
Roof.
Protection.
Wife.
She had been so busy surviving the trip that she had not allowed herself to think beyond the meal.
Now she could not avoid it.
Gideon saw the change.
His expression became unreadable.
“Just look.”
He walked down short hallway.
Opened a door.
Martha followed.
Caleb behind her.
Sarah holding her skirt.
Bess half asleep in Martha’s arms.
Inside was a large room.
A timber bed against one wall.
Martha saw it first.
Her pulse jumped.
Then she saw the other side.
Three smaller beds.
Fresh pine.
Clean mattresses.
Thick quilts.
One longer for Caleb.
One narrow for Sarah.
One tiny bed with side rail for Bess.
The children stopped.
Sarah whispered:
“Ours?”
Gideon nodded.
“All three.”
Caleb walked toward his bed.
Touched the wood.
Fresh shavings remained beneath.
Martha stared.
“You built these?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last two weeks.”
Her head snapped toward him.
“Two weeks?”
“Heard Arthur died.”
“Heard landlord was putting you out.”
Martha’s chest tightened.
“You planned this before speaking to me.”
“I planned for possibility.”
“Why?”
Gideon looked uncomfortable again.
The terrifying mountain man apparently preferred facing bears to emotional questions.
“I knew what winter would do.”
Martha touched nearest bedpost.
Smooth.
Carefully sanded.
He had spent hours.
For children he did not know.
The whole town had watched her sinking.
This man had quietly built beds.
Gideon said:
“I didn't build three.”
Martha turned.
“I built four.”
Her heart stopped.
He crossed the room.
Opened another narrow door Martha had assumed was closet.
Behind it was a small room.
A real room.
Window.
Chest.
Washstand.
And another bed.
Full-sized.
Fresh quilt.
Separate.
Martha looked from bed to him.
“For who?”
“You.”
She stared.
“What about…”
She looked toward his bed.
Gideon understood.
His expression softened.
“My bed is mine.”
“Yours is yours.”
“But you said you needed a wife.”
“I do.”
“And?”
“And a wife isn't the same thing as a body I bought with potatoes.”
Martha could not speak.
He continued:
“If you choose later, that's later.”
“If you don't, cabin still has work.”
“Children still eat.”
“You still have room.”
Her eyes filled.
Gideon looked alarmed.
He was evidently better with starvation than tears.