"You're very useful when you're not talking."
"That's hurtful."
"You'll survive."
Gideon laughed.
He moved the pan toward the center of the table.
Martha stood beside him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Outside, wind moved through the pines.
Snow had begun falling again.
It tapped softly against the small kitchen window.
Inside, the oven glowed orange.
The cabin smelled of roasted chicken, woodsmoke, rosemary, and fresh bread.
It was the kind of evening that made a person forget the world outside.
Martha looked at the oven.
Then at Gideon.
"You know," she said, "we've come a long way."
Gideon followed her gaze.
"That we have."
She rested one hand against the table.
"When we first came here, there wasn't even a floor."
"There was a floor."
"There were three boards."
"Four."
"Three and a half."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It does to me."
Gideon smiled.
Martha walked to the oven.
She crouched and pushed one of the iron doors slightly closed.
The fire inside shifted.
Orange light moved across the masonry.
"This oven saved us."
Gideon leaned against the table.
"It nearly killed us too."
Martha laughed.
"That bread?"
"That bread."
"It was not that bad."
"It could have been used to build a barn."
"You ate it."
"I was hungry."
"You ate three pieces."
"I was very hungry."
She looked at him.
"You're lucky I love you."
"I know."
He said it simply.
Without teasing.
Without hesitation.
Martha's smile softened.
That was how Gideon said things that mattered.
He never decorated them.
He never wrapped them in poetry.
He simply said them.
I love you.
I need you.
I'm proud of you.
I'm afraid.
I was wrong.
And somehow those plain words meant more than anything elaborate could have.
Martha looked down at her hands.
The skin around her fingers was rough from years of work.
There were tiny scars across her knuckles.
A faint burn mark near her wrist.
Her wedding ring had scratches across the gold.
She touched it.
"I remember the first time you saw me."
Gideon smiled.
"I remember."
"You looked terrified."
"I wasn't terrified."
"You were."
"I was trying to decide what to say."
"And what did you say?"
"I asked if you needed help carrying that sack."
Martha laughed.
"You were so awkward."
"I was polite."
"You were terrified."
Gideon nodded.
"Fine."
Martha turned toward him.
"What did you think?"
"About what?"
"About me."
He thought for a moment.
"You looked tired."
Her smile faded slightly.
"Tired?"
"Not weak."
He shook his head.
"You looked like somebody who had been carrying too much for too long."
Martha stared at him.
"That's what you remember?"
"Yes."
"And?"