And he didn't yet know how much that lesson was going to cost him.
The night the scars were revealed began with a broken water barrel.
A sharp freeze had split the old wooden container beside the barn, leaving the animals without their usual supply. Caleb went outside shortly after dusk to bring water from the protected spring, but the path was slippery and the wind was rising.
Martha heard him curse when the barrel shifted.
She wrapped herself in a shawl and went outside to help.
Together, they moved the damaged container away from the barn wall, carried fresh water, and secured the animals against the cold. By the time they finished, snow was falling heavily, and Martha's skirt was soaked around the hem.
Caleb looked toward her.
"Get inside before you freeze."
She nodded.
He stayed behind to close the barn.
When he returned, the cabin was warm, but Martha wasn't near the stove.
He heard movement from the sleeping area.
Then the sound of something falling.
A wooden chair struck the floor.
Caleb stepped toward the doorway.
"Martha? Are you all right?"
She didn't answer.
He heard a frightened gasp.
Then a hurried rustle of fabric.
Thinking she might have fallen, Caleb pushed the door open.
And stopped.
Martha stood beside the bed, wrapped in a single thin piece of pale-ivory linen, her wet clothing draped near the stove to dry. She was holding an old gray wool blanket against her chest, her broad shoulders exposed as she turned toward the sound.
Across her back were several long, faded scars.
Not fresh injuries.
Not the ordinary marks left by difficult labor.
Old reminders of something deliberate and cruel.
Caleb stared.
Martha looked over her shoulder.
Her face changed instantly.
"Please," she whispered. "Don't look at me."
He stepped backward.
"I'm sorry. I heard the chair fall."
She clutched the blanket.
Her eyes filled.
"I didn't mean for you to see."
Caleb lowered his gaze.
"You don't have to apologize."
Martha shook her head.
Her voice trembled.
"I know what you must be thinking."
He looked toward the floor.
"No, Martha. I don't think you do."
She laughed bitterly.
"You wanted a strong wife. Now you've seen what sort of woman came instead."
Caleb felt something inside him break.
He slowly removed his coat, placed it on the nearby chair, and stepped away.
"That's there if you want it," he said. "I'll wait outside."
Martha looked toward him.
For a moment, she seemed unable to understand why he wasn't angry.
Then she whispered the name.
"Harlan Tate said nobody would ever want me after what he did."
Caleb froze.
He turned.
"What name?"
Martha went pale.
She looked as though she'd made a terrible mistake.
"Harlan Tate," she repeated softly.
Caleb's hand moved instinctively toward the inside of his coat.
For years, he'd carried a small photograph he rarely showed anyone.
Now he removed it.