“Business.”
“Dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“Profitable?”
“Hopefully.”
“And if not?”
“I'll adapt.”
He smiled.
“Your father hates this?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Excellent.”
They had their first serious marital fight in August.
Not about money.
About horses.
Gideon sold Juniper.
Without asking.
Technically he traded her to a neighboring ranch for two work geldings.
He believed Juniper had developed a chronic respiratory problem and would do better at lower elevation.
All true.
Still.
Abigail discovered an empty stall.
The resulting argument was heard from the barn to the kitchen.
“You sold my horse?”
“Traded.”
“That is somehow worse.”
“She couldn't breathe properly here.”
“So you decided.”
“Samuel agreed.”
“Wonderful.”
“Perhaps marry Samuel.”
Gideon stared.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“I am too angry for sense.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I was trying to protect—”
“Stop.”
He stopped.
Abigail breathed.
“You forgot.”
His face changed.
Yes.
He had.
Choice.
Again.
Gideon sat on a tack trunk.
“I did.”
“She needed to go.”
“Yes.”
“I was right medically.”
“Probably.”
“And wrong.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
Abigail's anger did not disappear.
But it had somewhere to go now.
The next morning Gideon rode six hours to the neighboring ranch.
He did not bring Juniper back.
That would have repeated the mistake.
He returned with the neighbor.
The man explained the mare's condition, the lower pasture where she lived, and offered Abigail permanent visitation and first right to take her back if treatment improved.
Abigail accepted.
Then Gideon asked:
“Would you like another horse?”
“Not today.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Next month?”
“Maybe.”
He nodded.
Waited.
Three months later Abigail chose one herself.
Black mare.
White blaze.
Terrible manners.
Gideon loved her.
“She's like you.”
Abigail stared.
“Explain carefully.”
“Beautiful.”
“Stubborn.”
“Dangerous if handled badly.”
She thought.
“Acceptable.”
The years after were not perfect.
That became their greatest achievement.
Perfect marriages existed only in stories told by people hiding something.
Abigail and Gideon argued.
Desired each other.
Disappointed each other.
Learned.
Repeated mistakes less often.
Made new ones.
Horace visited occasionally.
At first formal.
Then less.
He never became warm easily.
Abigail never pretended the past vanished.
But he changed.
Slowly enough to be believable.
The first time he ate supper at Crosswind, Mrs. Bell placed pie on the table.
Horace looked toward Abigail's plate automatically.
The old habit.
She saw.
So did Gideon.
Horace's eyes shifted away.