Especially in front of him.
“I’m fine.”
Gideon stared at her.
“You're crying.”
“I noticed.”
He released the straw.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That usually doesn't make people cry.”
She wiped her cheek angrily.
“Perhaps I've had an exhausting day.”
“That I believe.”
The ceremony had been that morning.
Small chapel.
Four witnesses.
A blizzard threatening before noon.
Her father had attended long enough to sign the necessary papers, give Gideon a handshake colder than the weather, and tell Abigail that she was Gideon's responsibility now.
Responsibility.
Not wife.
Not daughter.
Responsibility.
Horace left before the wedding meal.
Abigail had pretended relief.
Now she stared at the saddle.
“Who sent it?”
Gideon did not answer immediately.
That made the fear worse.
“My father?”
“No.”
She looked up.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“I did.”
Abigail stared.
“You?”
“Yes.”
She laughed once.
Sharp.
Disbelieving.
“You bought me a saddle.”
“I commissioned one.”
“Today?”
“Months ago.”
Her chest tightened.
Before the wedding.
Before she had agreed to marry him.
“You assumed I would say yes?”
Gideon gave her a look.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I was hoping.”
That answer was so simple she did not know what to do with it.
She looked toward the saddle again.
Emerald green.
Silver conchos.
Dark hand-tooled flowers along the skirts.
Beautiful.
Far too beautiful.
And unmistakably larger through the seat than the elegant saddles women usually displayed at public rides.
Heat crawled up Abigail's neck.
There it was.
Perhaps not mockery.
Perhaps practicality.
Somehow that felt almost worse.
“You had it made larger.”
Gideon’s eyebrows drew together.
“Yes.”
Her face burned.
“You might have asked.”
“I intended to.”
“But?”
“But asking a woman I've barely courted how wide she needs her saddle seemed like an excellent way to get shot.”
Despite herself, Abigail nearly smiled.
She crushed it.
“This isn't funny.”
His expression softened.
“No.”
He came around the crate.
Abigail moved one step backward.
Gideon stopped immediately.
That too confused her.
Horace never stopped when someone stepped away.
Gideon looked at the saddle.
Then at her.
“I did not have it made larger because there's something wrong with you.”
She said nothing.
“I had it shaped for the way you sit a horse.”
“You've never seen me ride.”
“I have.”
Abigail frowned.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
She stared.
“County livestock exhibition.”
Memory surfaced.
She had attended with Catherine.
A mare broke loose from a groom.
Young bay.
Terrified by a steam whistle.
Men shouted.
Someone tried to catch the reins and made the animal panic worse.
Abigail had stepped quietly into the lane, spoken to the mare, taken the trailing line after three slow attempts, and led her behind the barn.
She had forgotten anyone was watching.
Gideon continued.
“You rode her bareback afterward because she wouldn't accept the saddle.”
Abigail stared.