The chicken was so large that Martha had to brace the iron pan against the edge of the stone oven before she could lift it completely free.
Steam rolled around her hands.
The skin of the bird was dark golden and crisp, glistening with rendered fat and the juices of the herbs she had tucked beneath the breast. Rosemary, sage, wild onion, and a little crushed garlic scented the kitchen so richly that even the coldest corner of the cabin seemed warmer.
Martha Higgins leaned back slightly and pulled.
The pan moved another inch.
"Easy," a deep voice murmured behind her.
She felt Gideon's hand hover near her waist.
"I've got it."
"I know."
"Then why are you hovering?"
"Because that pan weighs nearly as much as you do."
Martha stopped.
She turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder.
Her cheeks were already flushed from the oven heat, but the smile that appeared on her face had nothing to do with the fire.
"Nearly?"
Gideon Cain looked at her.
He was forty-two, broad through the shoulders and chest, with dark tousled hair and a rough beard that had grown darker along his jaw during the winter.
His cream shirt was rolled to his forearms, and his dark brown work vest had been left open.
He looked at the enormous chicken.
Then at Martha.
Then back at the chicken.
"I said nearly."
"You'd better be careful."
"About what?"
"About insulting your wife."
Gideon smiled.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Martha pulled the pan another inch.
"Good."
The chicken finally cleared the stone lip of the oven.
Gideon moved closer.
His hand settled lightly against her waist.
Not gripping.
Not pulling.
Just there.
Ready to help if the heavy pan slipped.
Martha knew he was being practical.
She also knew exactly how close he was.
His chest nearly touched her back.
The warmth of him mixed with the heat of the oven.
For one quiet second, she deliberately leaned backward.
Her shoulders rested against him.
Gideon went still.
Martha smiled.
She could feel his breath near her ear.
"Remember this place?" she whispered.
Gideon's voice dropped.
"I remember everything."
Martha gave the chicken one final tug.
"Do you?"
"I remember a night when that oven was the only warm thing in this cabin."
She laughed softly.
"You remember that?"
"I remember thinking I was going to freeze to death."
"You complained."
"I did not."
"You complained for half the night."
"I was cold."
"You were dramatic."
"I was freezing."
Martha glanced over her shoulder again.
"And now?"
Gideon leaned slightly closer.
"Now I'm wondering if my wife is trying to distract me from the fact that dinner is about to fall on the floor."
Martha's smile widened.
"Maybe."
She shifted her weight.
The pan finally came free.
"Then stop distracting me."
"I'm not the one who backed into me."
Martha raised one eyebrow.
"Did you say something?"
"No."
"Good."
She carried the pan toward the wooden table.
Gideon followed.
The cabin kitchen was small but carefully kept.
Rough timber beams crossed the ceiling.
Shelves lined one wall, holding clay jars, wooden bowls, bundles of dried herbs, jars of beans, flour, salt, preserved apples, and strips of smoked meat.
The stone oven had been built directly into the thick masonry wall beside the fireplace.
It had taken Gideon nearly three months to construct.
Martha had helped him carry stones.
They had argued over the shape of the chimney.
They had broken a wheelbarrow.
They had burned a batch of bread.
And one winter night, years ago, they had slept beside that same oven because a blizzard had buried the cabin door nearly to the roof.
Martha set the chicken down.
The iron pan struck the table with a heavy clang.
She exhaled.
"Done."
Gideon reached around her and took the pan handle.
"Let me."
"I already did it."
"And now I'm helping."
She looked at him.