“She came to me once.”
“I told her go home.”
“Why?”
“Thought marriage private.”
He swallowed.
“Three months later she was dead.”
Martha looked down.
Gideon’s voice remained flat because some grief had been carried too long to sound fresh.
“That why beds?”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“That why you let us come?”
“Part.”
Martha whispered:
“You couldn't save her.”
“No.”
“So now you save us.”
His jaw tightened.
“I don't think of it that way.”
“Why?”
“Because then you owe me being saved.”
Martha stared.
Gideon continued:
“You needed roof.”
“I had one.”
“That’s all.”
She looked at fire.
“Not all.”
“No.”
“But enough.”
Silence.
Then Martha asked:
“Were you married?”
“No.”
“Ever close?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Gideon shrugged.
“Mountains.”
“That is not answer.”
“Maybe I don't have one.”
Martha looked at him.
“You’re forty?”
“Forty-one.”
“Never wanted anyone?”
His gaze moved to her.
Slowly.
Martha felt it.
“Oh.”
Gideon immediately looked away.
She smiled.
Interesting.
The mountain man who could butcher elk without blinking had become uncomfortable because she caught him looking.
Martha leaned slightly forward.
“You’re blushing.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Fire.”
“Of course.”
He stood.
“Need wood.”
“There’s enough.”
“More.”
Martha laughed softly.
Gideon escaped outside.
That was first time she wondered whether he found her desirable.
The thought frightened her.
Not because she disliked it.
Because she liked it.
Arthur had desired her in beginning.
Then illness turned intimacy into memory.
Before Arthur, boys treated her body as spectacle.
After Arthur’s death, no man looked at her with interest unless it contained mockery or hunger unconnected to respect.
Gideon looked differently.
Like he was surprised by wanting her.
And slightly angry with himself for making it her problem.
Weeks passed.
Martha learned his glances.
He looked when she kneaded bread.
When she carried Bess.
When her hair fell loose while hanging laundry indoors.
When she laughed.
Never when she undressed.
Never through a cracked door.
Never when she was vulnerable.
Only when she was fully herself.
That mattered.
One evening she decided to test him.
Not cruelly.
Maybe a little.
The children were asleep.
Gideon repaired harness at table.
Martha sat opposite sewing.
She wore burgundy dress without apron.
The neckline sat lower than work dresses, still modest by any sensible standard.
Gideon had looked at her three times.
On the fourth, Martha put needle down.
“You keep staring.”
His hands stopped.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Gideon looked at harness.
Martha smiled.
“If you’re going to lie, at least improve.”
He sighed.
“I was looking.”
“Why?”
He stared at her as if she had asked why snow was cold.
Martha waited.
Finally:
“Because you’re beautiful.”
No hesitation this time.
Her smile disappeared.
He returned to harness.
Martha said:
“You say things and then act like they didn’t happen.”
“Usually works.”
“Not tonight.”