“Yes.”
He continued.
“Even though asking would've ruined the surprise.”
“Yes.”
“Surprises are overrated.”
“Usually.”
He looked at her.
“But I'm glad you kept it.”
“So am I.”
His eyes lowered.
Mischief.
Abigail knew immediately.
“No.”
“What?”
“You have that face.”
“What face?”
“The one from our wedding night.”
Gideon smiled.
“You remember?”
“I remember you believing you were subtle.”
“I was very subtle.”
“You stared at my mouth for ten minutes.”
“Worth looking at.”
Abigail shook her head.
“Sixty-three.”
“Still married.”
“Dangerous combination.”
He leaned closer.
“Keep talking like that, wife.”
Abigail laughed.
“And?”
“You may discover age has not entirely improved my behavior.”
She caught his shirt.
Pulled him close.
“Who said I wanted it improved?”
Their daughter walked into the tack room three seconds later.
“Oh, for heaven's sake.”
Abigail and Gideon separated.
Eleanor covered her eyes.
“You are both ancient.”
Gideon looked offended.
“Leave.”
“This is a public barn.”
“My barn.”
“Mother owns forty-nine percent.”
Abigail corrected:
“Fifty-one now.”
Gideon stared.
“When did that happen?”
“Last Tuesday.”
Eleanor laughed.
Gideon looked at his wife.
“Financial aggression again.”
“Always.”
At seventy-one, Gideon could no longer ride safely.
He hated admitting it.
Abigail knew not to take the choice.
She waited.
One morning he handed Thomas his reins.
“Sell the bay.”
Thomas stared.
“Father.”
“I said sell.”
“You love that horse.”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
Gideon looked at Abigail.
She said nothing.
He smiled slightly.
“Your mother has trained me for forty years.”
Thomas looked confused.
Gideon continued.
“I cannot ride safely.”
“That makes the horse wasted here.”
“Sell him to someone who will.”
Thomas nodded.
No drama.
After he left, Abigail sat beside Gideon on the porch.
“That hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Want me to tell you you're brave?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He looked at her.
“You could say something kind.”
“You have beautiful eyes.”
“About the horse.”
“No.”
He laughed.
Abigail took his hand.
“You chose.”
“Yes.”
“That matters.”
He squeezed.
Gideon died at seventy-eight.
In his own bed.
Not suddenly.
Not painfully.
Heart weakening over months.
He became infuriatingly philosophical near the end.
Abigail complained.
“People only become profound when nobody can argue without looking cruel.”
Gideon smiled from the pillow.
“You've never had that difficulty.”
“True.”
He looked toward the window.