“Yes.”
At night they became more comfortable with each other.
Sometimes intensely so.
Gideon was careful without being timid.
Abigail discovered she liked making him lose that carefulness.
Not completely.
Just enough.
She liked the moment his controlled expression cracked because she whispered something improper near his ear.
He retaliated by kissing her until she forgot what argument they had been having.
Once, after dinner, Abigail sat on the kitchen table while Gideon stood between her knees.
She touched the open collar of his shirt.
“You realize Mrs. Bell could walk in.”
“She went home.”
“Samuel?”
“Would die of embarrassment.”
“That is not reassurance.”
Gideon kissed the side of her neck.
Abigail's fingers tightened in his shirt.
“This is exactly the sort of behavior respectable wives avoid.”
“Are you respectable?”
“Not currently.”
“Good.”
She laughed softly.
Then his hands stopped.
“What?”
He looked at her.
“You're happy?”
The question startled her.
“In this exact moment?”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Very.”
His expression softened.
“Then continue being unrespectable.”
She pulled him back toward her.
Winter deepened.
So did the marriage.
Then Horace Whitmore arrived.
It was February third.
A storm had rolled over the western ridge that morning, carrying wind strong enough to erase wagon tracks within minutes.
At noon, Samuel entered the ranch house.
“Mr. Cross.”
Gideon looked up from the desk.
Abigail sat across from him reviewing seed orders.
Samuel removed his hat.
“Mr. Whitmore is at the gate.”
Abigail's pen stopped.
Gideon looked at her.
“Did you invite him?”
“No.”
“Want me to send him away?”
The immediate offer stunned her.
No duty.
No he is your father.
Just choice.
Abigail thought.
“No.”
Then:
“Not yet.”
Gideon stood.
Horace entered ten minutes later wearing a black wool coat edged with snow.
Sixty-one.
Tall.
Thin.
Silver hair.
Still handsome in the severe way wealthy men often became handsome after everyone stopped disagreeing with them.
His gaze swept the room.
Then Abigail.
He looked at her dress first.
Dark green.
Fitted properly.
Not concealing her body.
Disapproval flickered.
Abigail saw.
Old instincts rose.
She almost pulled the fabric at her waist.
Stopped herself.
Horace noticed Gideon standing behind her.
“Cross.”
“Whitmore.”
No handshake.
Interesting.
Horace removed gloves.
“You look comfortable, Abigail.”
The words sounded innocent.
They were not.
She smiled.
“I am.”
His eyes sharpened.
“I feared ranch life might prove demanding.”
“It is.”
“And yet.”
There.
Abigail said:
“If you're asking whether I've lost weight, Father, I have no idea.”
Silence.
Gideon became very still.
Horace stared.
Abigail continued:
“We don't own a scale large enough for cattle and small enough for your curiosity.”
Samuel, standing near the hall, coughed.
Gideon looked down to hide something.
Horace's face cooled.
“You've become amusing.”
“I always was.”
“You rarely showed it.”
“Perhaps the audience improved.”