Watched her.
She looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That expression is never nothing.”
Caleb wiped his palms on his trousers.
“I wanted to ask something.”
Eleanor stopped kneading.
“Yes?”
He looked more frightened than when he revealed the scar.
“May I kiss you?”
Eleanor stared.
He immediately began retreating.
“You can say no.”
“I know.”
“We don't have to—”
“Caleb.”
He stopped.
“Yes.”
She walked around the table.
Flour covered her hands.
“Come here.”
He did.
She put both hands against his beard.
White flour streaked the dark hair.
Caleb looked confused.
Eleanor smiled.
Then kissed him.
He was terrible.
Not unpleasant.
Simply inexperienced enough that she had to pull back before laughing.
Caleb's face fell.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was laughter.”
“You kissed my nose.”
“I thought—”
She kissed him again.
Better.
When they separated, Caleb looked stunned.
“Did I improve?”
“Marginally.”
“Again?”
Eleanor laughed.
Practice continued.
By March, Caleb had improved substantially.
So had Eleanor.
Not technically.
Emotionally.
Henry had taught her physical affection came with expectations.
Caleb repeatedly proved it could stop wherever she wished.
Some nights they kissed and nothing more.
Some nights they talked.
Some nights Eleanor asked to sleep beside him because wind made the cabin feel too empty.
Caleb never assumed the next night guaranteed anything.
One evening she asked:
“Why do you always wait?”
“For what?”
“For me to say yes again.”
Caleb looked puzzled.
“Yesterday’s yes was yesterday.”
The simplicity of it made Eleanor cry.
Caleb panicked.
“I said something wrong.”
“No.”
“Then why—”
She kissed him.
“Because nobody ever explained it to me that simply.”
Their marriage eventually became intimate fully, but there was no moment of obligation or conquest. It happened when both were ready and remained private between them.
Afterward Caleb lay beside Eleanor staring at the ceiling.
She turned.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
His eyes filled.
“I spent nineteen years believing nobody could see all of me and stay.”
Eleanor rested her head against his shoulder.
“You were wrong.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Try not to enjoy admitting that.”
He laughed.
Then asked:
“You?”
“What?”
“Anything you believed?”
Eleanor looked toward the ceiling.
“I believed a man could only desire me if he planned to punish me later for being desirable.”
Caleb turned.
“What kind of nonsense—”
She raised an eyebrow.
He caught himself.
“Henry.”
“Yes.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
Eleanor touched his beard.
“But I was wrong too.”
He kissed her forehead.
Two people.
Two prisons.
Both doors finally opening.
By late May, the pass cleared.
Caleb delayed the trip to Denver three times.
First because one mare seemed lame.
Eleanor proved she was not.