Gideon stared.
Abigail continued.
“If you defend me by taking my voice, you've misunderstood everything.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“Damn.”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his beard.
“You're right.”
She had expected argument.
Again.
The apology disarmed her.
“I’m sorry.”
Gideon looked directly at her.
“I hated what he was saying.”
“So did I.”
“I wanted him gone.”
“So did I.”
“But you were speaking.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
Abigail's anger softened.
Not gone.
Enough.
Gideon looked at the debt note.
“You don't have to save the ranch.”
She stared.
“I live here.”
“Yes.”
“That makes it my concern.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
He smiled faintly.
“I am learning not to finish your arguments.”
“Good.”
Abigail sat.
“Show me the books.”
He hesitated.
“All of them.”
“Abigail.”
She raised one eyebrow.
Gideon went to get the ledgers.
The next nine weeks changed Crosswind Ranch more than Gideon’s previous three years.
Abigail found money where everyone else saw only shortage.
Not magically.
Painfully.
They sold twelve older horses that consumed more than they contributed.
Gideon hated it.
Abigail hated it too.
They did it.
She renegotiated a timber contract in exchange for summer grazing rights.
She discovered the ranch had paid duplicate freight charges twice the previous autumn.
Recovered one hundred eighty-six dollars.
She reduced feed losses by moving stacks and changing feeding order.
Saved another few hundred.
Samuel began bringing her figures before Gideon.
Not because Gideon demanded it.
Because Samuel trusted her now.
One afternoon he placed a ledger down.
“Mrs. Cross.”
She looked up.
“Problem?”
“Maybe.”
“North pasture count says seventy-four calves.”
“Actual is sixty-eight.”
“Six missing?”
“Or count wrong.”
“Which?”
Samuel smiled.
“Thought you'd ask.”
They found four incorrectly assigned to another lot.
Two had died and never been removed from inventory.
The correction mattered.
Small truth.
Better planning.
Abigail loved these victories.
They were not glamorous.
They were real.
She rode almost every day once snow softened enough.
The emerald saddle transformed something she had believed permanently ruined.
At first Gideon rode beside her.
Far enough not to crowd.
Near enough if she needed him.
She did not.
Her mare, Juniper, was a patient sorrel with one white stocking and no respect for fences.
The custom saddle held Abigail correctly.
No pinching.
No shame.
No constant awareness of where her body pressed against leather.
She could simply ride.
The first afternoon they reached a ridge above Crosswind Ranch, Abigail stopped.
Below them:
House.
Barns.
Cattle.
Creek under ice.
Mountains in the distance.
Gideon rode up beside her.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
She was crying again.
He had learned not to panic every time.
“Good tears?”
“I despise that phrase.”
“So neutral tears?”
She laughed.