His eyebrows rose.
“We have been married less than a day.”
“Marriage has already improved my honesty.”
“Terrifying.”
She smiled.
Then his expression became serious.
“What?”
Gideon hesitated.
“I meant what I said.”
“About your beard needing no improvement?”
“About the saddle.”
Abigail's smile faded.
“If you don't want it—”
“I want it.”
The certainty surprised both of them.
Gideon waited.
She continued.
“I think.”
“Strong endorsement.”
She pushed his shoulder.
He laughed.
“I want to try.”
His face softened.
“Today?”
“Today.”
“There are two feet of snow.”
“Then perhaps not today.”
“Spring?”
Abigail thought about riding.
People watching.
Pain.
Her father's voice.
The saddle isn't the part that ought to change.
Gideon saw something pass through her face.
“We can ride alone.”
She looked at him.
“You don't have to perform for anyone here.”
That word.
Perform.
Abigail had performed femininity for Horace.
Grace.
Small appetite.
Quiet.
Modest laughter.
Narrow dresses.
Side-saddle once her body matured enough for him to declare astride riding unladylike.
Everything had been performance.
She whispered:
“Alone.”
“Alone.”
By breakfast, Abigail discovered that being mistress of Crosswind Ranch involved less glamour than her father had implied.
The cook, Mrs. Bell, had injured her wrist the previous week.
A pipe had frozen in the washhouse.
Two calves were sick.
A hired hand named Levi believed salt cured almost every bovine ailment and needed supervision.
The ranch foreman, Samuel Reed, spoke to Abigail politely but with the cautious discomfort of a man unsure what authority a new wife possessed.
Abigail noticed immediately.
At the breakfast table, Gideon read a telegram while Abigail poured coffee.
Samuel stood near the door.
“Mr. Cross.”
Gideon looked up.
“Feed inventory says seven weeks if weather holds.”
“And if it doesn't?”
“Five.”
Abigail paused.
“How many cattle?”
Samuel glanced at her.
“Ma’am?”
“How many are still on winter range?”
He looked toward Gideon.
Gideon continued reading.
Samuel answered reluctantly.
“Six hundred eighty-four.”
“Breeding cows?”
“Four hundred eleven.”
“Yearlings?”
“One seventy-three.”
“Rest?”
“Bulls, calves kept back, working stock.”
Abigail set down the coffee.
“Seven weeks of feed for nearly seven hundred head?”
Samuel nodded.
“Estimated.”
“Based on what daily ration?”
He hesitated.
Gideon lowered the telegram.
Samuel said:
“Twenty-two pounds hay equivalent.”
Abigail frowned.
“In this cold?”
“Average.”
“Are you counting waste?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Ten percent.”
“Too low.”
Samuel stared.
Abigail continued.
“Your stacks are uncovered on the west side.”
“They've been covered.”
“Canvas isn't secured along the bottom.”
Samuel’s expression shifted.
“When did you see the stacks?”
“Yesterday.”
“You arrived yesterday.”
“Yes.”
Gideon hid a smile behind his coffee.