“I wanted to give my wife something made for her.”
Abigail swallowed.
“For my body.”
“For your body exactly as it is.”
Heat rose through her.
His thumb lingered near her cheek.
She should have stepped away.
Instead, she reached up and caught the front of his coat.
Gideon’s eyes changed.
Abigail whispered:
“Keep looking at me like that, husband, and that saddle won't be the only thing we forget about tonight.”
For the first time all day, Gideon Cross looked genuinely uncertain.
That pleased her more than it should have.
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips.
“Careful, sweetheart.”
His voice had gone rough.
“I've been behaving myself since the ceremony.”
He leaned slightly closer.
“You're making that increasingly difficult.”
Abigail smiled through the remnants of her tears.
“Who said I married you because I wanted you well-behaved?”
Gideon stared.
Then laughed under his breath.
“God help me.”
“He had his opportunity this morning.”
She pulled him closer by his lapel.
Gideon's hand settled at her waist.
Not forcing.
Waiting.
“Tell me to stay,” he murmured.
“And I'm not going anywhere.”
Abigail looked at him.
The fire snapped behind them.
Snow covered Wyoming beyond the windows.
She had spent twenty-five years learning that wanting too much made a woman foolish.
Food.
Attention.
Room.
Love.
She was supposed to make herself smaller.
Instead she whispered:
“Stay.”
Gideon kissed her.
Slowly at first.
Not because he lacked hunger.
Because he had too much of it.
Abigail felt that immediately.
In the way his hand tightened slightly against her waist.
In the breath he released when her fingers disappeared into the hair at the back of his neck.
In how he kissed her once and then stopped long enough to look at her.
Checking.
Always checking.
She kissed him again before he could ask.
That answered enough.
The saddle remained forgotten in the crate for the next hour.
Not entirely forgotten.
When Gideon carried her upstairs, Abigail laughed against his mouth.
“You spent a fortune on a saddle.”
“Yes.”
“And now you're ignoring it.”
“I have discovered a competing interest.”
She laughed again.
The bedroom door closed.
The rest belonged to them.
Morning arrived pale and cold.
Abigail woke beneath a heavy quilt with Gideon's arm around her waist.
For several seconds she did not remember where she was.
Then she smelled cedar smoke.
Heard wind against glass.
Felt the heavy warmth behind her.
Marriage.
Her husband.
Gideon.
Her body stiffened instinctively.
His arm immediately loosened.
“You awake?”
His voice was rough with sleep.
“Yes.”
“Want me to move?”
The question again.
Abigail stared at the wall.
“No.”
His arm settled again.
No triumphant squeeze.
No teasing.
Just warmth.
She disliked how much that affected her.
After a minute Gideon said:
“I should probably apologize.”
“For?”
“Your hair.”
Abigail reached up.
Disaster.
Half the pins gone.
Curls everywhere.
She turned.
“This is your fault.”
“I accept responsibility.”
“You sound proud.”
“I am trying not to.”
She looked at his face.
Without the coat and ranch authority, he looked younger.
Still rough.
Still dangerous in the abstract.
But not with her.
She touched his beard.
“You need trimming.”