"No."
Her eyes filled.
"No, it wasn't."
He took one hesitant step closer.
Then stopped.
Lydia looked toward his hands.
They were rough.
Scarred.
Large enough to cover both of hers.
Yet he held them carefully at his sides.
She whispered, "Would you sit beside me?"
Gideon looked startled.
"On the bed?"
She smiled faintly.
"Yes, Gideon. On the bed."
He approached slowly.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight.
He sat at the far end, leaving a respectful space between them.
For a while, neither spoke.
The dogs slept near the stove.
Wind moved through the pine trees outside.
Lydia looked toward his hands.
Then carefully placed her own hand between them on the quilt.
Gideon glanced down.
He understood the invitation.
But he did not take it immediately.
"May I?"
She nodded.
He placed his enormous hand over hers.
His palm was warm.
His fingers were rough.
He held her as though he were afraid of breaking something precious.
Lydia looked up.
"You're trembling again."
Gideon gave a small, embarrassed smile.
"I know."
"Why?"
He stared at their hands.
Then answered in a voice barely above a whisper.
"Because I haven't wanted to hold somebody's hand this badly in years."
Lydia's eyes filled.
She turned her hand beneath his and gently closed her fingers around his.
"Then perhaps you should stop being afraid of it."
For the first time, Gideon laughed.
Not loudly.
Not confidently.
Just a small, astonished sound.
He looked toward her.
And in the warm glow of the stove, Lydia saw something she had almost forgotten existed.
Hope.
They did not kiss that night.
Lydia would remember that afterward, sometimes with a tenderness greater than the memory of their first kiss itself.
They sat together on the bed until the fire burned low, her smaller hand resting inside Gideon's enormous palm. They spoke about simple things at first: the snow, the dogs, the best time to plant potatoes, and the fact that Lydia had once won a county fair ribbon for her blackberry preserves.
Gideon seemed genuinely impressed by the last achievement.
"First place?"
She smiled.
"Second."
"What beat you?"
"Mrs. Abernathy's peach jam."
He frowned as though considering a serious injustice.
"Was it better?"
Lydia laughed.
"Unfortunately."
Gideon shook his head.
"Sounds like a crooked judge."
She laughed again, harder this time, and the sound filled the cabin.
When she finally grew sleepy, Gideon released her hand carefully.
He stood.
Adjusted the quilt.
Then returned to his makeshift bed beside the stove.
Lydia watched him settle onto the blankets.
"Gideon?"
He looked up.
"Yes?"
"Good night."
His face softened.
"Good night, Lydia."
She lay beneath the quilt, her hair spread across the pillow.
Outside, the wind carried snow through the pine trees.
Inside, the fire glowed.
And for the second night in a row, she slept without fear.