Martha noticed.
She always noticed.
"Twenty-one," she repeated softly.
Gideon looked toward the cabin.
The old cabin.
Their cabin.
The place that had once seemed like nothing more than four walls and a roof.
The place that had become their entire history.
"Twenty-one years," he said.
"And you still haven't learned to listen."
"I listen."
"You listen selectively."
"That's different."
She smiled.
Then the smile faded as she looked at the barn.
"We'll fix it."
Gideon nodded.
They returned to the cabin before dark.
That evening, Martha prepared a thick stew from the last of the preserved beef, potatoes, onions, and carrots. Gideon brought in more wood and stacked it beside the oven.
Neither mentioned the cold.
Neither mentioned the barn.
They simply worked.
It was one of the things Martha loved most about their marriage.
They could face a problem without allowing the problem to become the whole room.
After supper, they sat together near the oven.
Martha knitted.
Gideon carved a small piece of wood.
The cabin was quiet except for the fire.
After a while Martha said, "Do you remember the first winter?"
Gideon smiled without looking up.
"Which part?"
"The oven."
He stopped carving.
"I remember."
"We didn't have enough blankets."
"We didn't have enough of anything."
"We had potatoes."
"Three."
"Five."
"Three good ones."
"You ate two."
"I was bigger."
"You were greedy."
"I was freezing."
She laughed softly.
Then her voice became quieter.
"I remember lying there."
Gideon placed the knife down.
"So do I."
"I thought the cold would never end."
"It nearly didn't."
"You told me it would."
"I lied."
Martha looked at him.
"You knew?"
"I knew the storm would end eventually. I just didn't know when."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged.
"Because you were already scared."
She lowered her knitting.
"You were scared too."
"Yes."
"You never said."
"I didn't want you carrying my fear when you already had enough of your own."
Martha stared at him.
After twenty-one years, there were still things about Gideon that surprised her.
Not because he had changed.
Because she continued discovering the depth of the man she had married.
She moved closer.
"You carried it anyway."
He looked at her.
"Some things are easier to carry together."
She reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around hers.
Outside, the wind moved across the roof.
Inside, the oven glowed.
Martha rested her head against his shoulder.
"Tomorrow," she said, "we'll fix the barn."
"Tomorrow."
"And after that?"
"Whatever comes."
She smiled.
"That's not much of a plan."
"It has worked so far."
It had.
Not perfectly.
Not easily.
But it had worked.
The next morning, they went into the woods.
The snow was still deep, but the sky had cleared, and sunlight flashed against the branches so brightly that Martha had to shade her eyes.
Gideon walked ahead with an axe.
Martha followed carrying a rope and two heavy canvas sacks.
They found the first suitable stone near the creek.
Then another.
And another.
By noon, their hands were numb.