"About?"
"The creek. The road. Whether I'd be willing to sell the eastern strip."
Gideon's jaw tightened.
"What did you tell him?"
"That he could buy my land the day the moon fell into my chicken coop."
Lydia nearly choked on her coffee.
Ruth looked toward her.
"Don't laugh, dear. I was being polite."
Even Gideon smiled.
Then Ruth's expression grew serious.
"Rusk has been trying to pressure the smaller landholders for months."
"How?"
"Offers first. Then warnings."
She looked toward Gideon.
"Last week, somebody cut the latch on my north gate."
Gideon frowned.
"Any cattle missing?"
"No. But the animals wandered toward the frozen creek."
"Could've been an accident."
Ruth gave him a flat look.
"Not with the latch cut clean through."
Gideon nodded slowly.
Lydia looked between them.
"Has anyone complained to the sheriff?"
Ruth sighed.
"Several times."
"And?"
"Nothing useful."
Gideon folded his arms.
"Sheriff says there's no proof."
Ruth looked toward the window.
"Funny how there's never proof when Rusk is involved."
Lydia felt the familiar chill of recognition.
In St. Louis, Everett had often said the same thing after employees complained.
They have no proof.
He said it as though the absence of an investigation established his innocence.
She looked toward the sewing book on the table.
Then toward Ruth.
"Would you be willing to tell a lawyer what happened?"
Ruth raised an eyebrow.
"A lawyer?"
"Yes."
The older woman smiled slowly.
"Now that's a question I like."
Ruth remained until afternoon.
She helped Lydia examine supplies.
She explained which plants could survive the mountain winter.
She described where the nearest doctor lived, how mail reached Calder's Crossing, and which roads became dangerous after heavy snow.
Lydia listened carefully.
She asked questions.
Took notes.
And began forming a clearer picture of the life she had entered.
By the time Ruth prepared to leave, the two women had become unexpectedly comfortable with each other.
At the door, Ruth touched Lydia's arm.
"One more thing, dear."
Lydia looked up.
"Yes?"
Ruth lowered her voice.
"If Gideon seems quiet, don't take it as coldness."
Lydia glanced toward the woodpile where he was helping harness the horse.
"I don't."
Ruth smiled.
"He lost his brother badly."
"I know."
"He blames himself."
Lydia nodded.
Ruth studied her.
"He's also been lonely longer than he admits."
Lydia looked toward him.
"He told me."
Ruth's expression softened.
"Then he's already told you more than he's told most of us."
She squeezed Lydia's hand.
"Give him time."
Lydia smiled.
"I will."
Ruth stepped closer.
"And take some for yourself."
Those words surprised Lydia.
Ruth continued.
"You've had your own troubles. I can see that without knowing the particulars."