The following morning, Lydia woke to the sound of voices outside.
She sat upright.
The bed beside the wall was empty, as always.
Gideon had slept near the stove.
But now his blanket lay folded.
The dogs were awake.
Flint stood near the door.
Lydia listened.
A woman's voice carried through the clearing.
Then Gideon's deep reply.
She slipped on her heavy robe and approached the window.
Outside stood a small wagon pulled by a chestnut horse.
Beside it was a middle-aged woman wearing a green wool cloak and a brown felt hat.
Her cheeks were bright from the cold.
She held a basket in one arm.
Gideon stood nearby speaking to her.
Lydia opened the door.
Both turned.
The woman smiled immediately.
"Well, there she is!"
Lydia stopped.
Gideon looked toward her.
"Lydia, this is Ruth Calder."
The woman approached.
"Your nearest neighbor. If eighteen miles counts as near."
Lydia smiled shyly.
"How do you do?"
Ruth studied her face.
Then her clothing.
But unlike so many women Lydia had met, she did not allow her gaze to linger judgmentally on her body.
Instead, she stepped forward and offered the basket.
"I brought bread, preserves, and a decent piece of cheese. Men living alone forget that not every meal needs to come from a frying pan."
Gideon looked offended.
"I make good stew."
Ruth gave him a look.
"Stew isn't a religion, Gideon."
Lydia laughed.
Ruth turned toward her.
"Oh, I like you already."
She handed over the basket.
"Welcome to Frost Creek."
Lydia felt tears prick her eyes.
"Thank you."
Ruth smiled gently.
"You're welcome, dear."
Then she leaned closer.
"And if this giant ever forgets his manners, you come find me."
Gideon sighed.
"Ruth."
She ignored him.
"I've known him since he was sixteen. I can still make him feel twelve if necessary."
Lydia laughed again.
For a moment, the previous day's fear eased.
Ruth entered the cabin.
She removed her cloak.
Then looked around.
Her eyes settled on the wider chair beside the stove.
She smiled.
"Gideon built that for you?"
Lydia nodded.
"Yes."
Ruth looked toward him.
"Well, I'll be."
Gideon frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
But her expression suggested she knew exactly how unusual it was for Gideon Hayes to prepare his cabin so carefully for another person.
Ruth Calder was forty-nine years old, widowed, and responsible for a modest ranch near the lower creek.
Her husband had died five years earlier after an illness.
She had two grown sons who worked farther south and a daughter named Elsie, eleven, who helped with the animals and attended school whenever the road permitted.
Ruth was practical, sharp-tongued, and fiercely protective of people she considered family.
She had known Gideon's parents.
She remembered Elias as a boy.
And she had never believed the young surveyor's death was as simple as the sheriff claimed.
Over coffee, Gideon explained what they found in the survey cabin.
Ruth listened carefully.
When he mentioned Harris Crowe, her expression hardened.
"That man was at my lower pasture last week."
Gideon looked up.
"Doing what?"
"Asking questions."