"In his field journal."
"Do you have it?"
He shook his head.
"No."
"What happened to it?"
Gideon stared toward the snow.
"That's what I've been trying to find since he died."
He turned back to Lydia.
"His journal disappeared with his survey papers."
"Where were they last seen?"
"An old cabin above North Fork."
Lydia looked toward the mountains.
"Can we go there?"
Gideon stared at her.
"In this weather?"
"Not tonight."
He looked toward the map again.
Then toward her.
"Lydia, that place is dangerous even in summer."
She held his gaze.
"Your brother died trying to understand those records."
Gideon's expression tightened.
"And your first husband may have threatened him."
She nodded.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Lydia said quietly, "I spent years being afraid to ask what Everett was doing. I won't spend the rest of my life afraid to know."
Gideon looked at her for a long time.
Then he nodded.
"When the weather clears, we'll go."
That night, Gideon made a second bed.
Not on the floor.
He moved a narrow wooden bench away from the wall, placed two thick blankets over it, and covered it with a bearskin.
Lydia watched from the larger bed.
"That looks uncomfortable."
Gideon tested the bench.
"I'll manage."
"You've been sleeping on the floor since I arrived."
"Only two nights."
"That's two nights too many."
He looked toward her.
She felt her cheeks warming.
Then she said, "We could take turns."
Gideon frowned.
"On the floor?"
"On the bed."
He stared.
Lydia laughed softly.
"You look horrified."
"I didn't bring you across the country to make you sleep on a bench."
"And I didn't come here to watch you ruin your back."
A reluctant smile appeared beneath his beard.
"Mine's already ruined."
"Then you ought to take better care of it."
Gideon studied her.
The warmth of the stove lit her face.
Her thick hair fell over her shoulders.
She wore the ivory nightgown, its lace sleeves gathered around her wrists.
She looked beautiful.
He wanted to tell her.
The words rose into his throat.
Then stopped.
He had spent so many years alone that he no longer trusted himself to speak tenderly without sounding foolish.
Lydia noticed the hesitation.
"What?"
He shook his head.
"Nothing."
She looked down.
Then said quietly, "You may say it."
Gideon frowned.
"Say what?"
"Whatever you're thinking."
He swallowed.
For several seconds, he seemed to wrestle with himself.
Then he spoke.
"You look lovely by the fire."
Lydia went still.
No man had said those words to her without following them with a cruel joke or a demand.
She looked at Gideon.
He seemed almost embarrassed.
"I'm sorry if that was too forward."
She shook her head.