Horace ignored him.
“You are not suited to this life.”
Gideon stepped forward.
“Enough.”
Abigail turned on him.
“Stop.”
He stopped.
She was shaking.
Not from weakness.
Rage.
She looked at Horace.
“Do you know what I did yesterday?”
He stared.
“I renegotiated three freight invoices.”
“I separated feed allocations for pregnant cows.”
“I found a supplier in Laramie willing to extend seed credit against spring calf sales.”
“I helped Mrs. Bell preserve enough meat for twenty men through March.”
“I rode eight miles.”
Horace’s expression changed.
The last one.
Rode.
Abigail continued.
“I rode.”
“In my saddle.”
“I did not apologize.”
“I did not fall.”
“I did not become smaller.”
Horace glanced toward Gideon.
Abigail saw.
“He did not make me do any of those things.”
“He asked.”
“That is apparently a concept you never learned.”
Horace stood.
“This is emotion.”
“No.”
Abigail smiled faintly.
“This is arithmetic.”
She pushed the debt note toward him.
“Nine thousand four hundred.”
“Ten weeks.”
“I'll find it.”
Gideon stared.
“Abigail.”
She looked at him.
“Not from my dowry.”
He understood.
A slow smile touched his mouth.
Horace laughed.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You have no assets.”
Abigail looked at the bank certificate.
“Apparently I have twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“You just said—”
“I won't use it for your note.”
She folded her hands.
“But I can use it as proof of credit.”
Horace's face sharpened.
“To whom?”
“Anyone who understands collateral.”
“That money was intended—”
“For me.”
Abigail interrupted.
“You said dowry.”
“Gideon placed it in my name.”
“Therefore it is mine.”
Horace stood completely still.
Gideon looked at Abigail with something that was dangerously close to admiration.
She liked it.
Horace said:
“You have no idea how business works.”
Abigail smiled.
“Robert still losing freight deductions?”
His face changed.
She knew.
Good.
“Leave.”
Horace looked toward Gideon.
Gideon remained silent.
Abigail said it again.
“My house.”
“My husband.”
“My decision.”
“Leave.”
Horace put on his gloves.
At the door he turned.
“You will regret choosing hardship.”
Abigail answered:
“I regret choosing fear for twenty-five years.”
He left.
The front door closed.
Silence.
Abigail stood for three seconds.
Then turned toward Gideon.
He looked almost proud.
Wrong expression.
She pointed at him.
“You.”
His eyebrows rose.
“What did I do?”
“You nearly answered for me.”
His pride disappeared.
“I—”
“You told him to get out before I had decided.”
“He was insulting you.”
“Yes.”
“And?”