Then Gideon said something unexpected.
"Elias used to tell me I ought to marry."
She looked up.
"Did he?"
He nodded.
"Said this cabin needed somebody who could keep me from becoming part of the furniture."
Lydia smiled.
"Was he right?"
Gideon looked toward the stove.
"Probably."
She laughed.
Then asked softly, "Did you ever love anyone before?"
Gideon's expression changed.
He leaned back.
For several seconds, he seemed to consider how much to say.
Finally, he nodded.
"Once."
Lydia felt a small, unexpected ache.
She had no right to be jealous.
They barely knew one another.
Still, she looked down.
"What happened?"
Gideon rubbed a hand across his beard.
"Her name was Anna. She lived near Lander."
"Were you engaged?"
"Nearly."
Lydia looked toward him.
"Nearly?"
He nodded.
"I asked her to marry me. She said she'd consider it."
"And?"
"Then her family needed her in Nebraska. Her mother was ill."
He paused.
"She wrote for a while. Then the letters stopped."
Lydia felt sadness.
"Did she marry someone else?"
"Yes."
"Did you love her?"
Gideon looked toward the fire.
"I thought I did."
Lydia considered that.
"And now?"
He turned toward her.
"Now I think I loved the idea of not being alone."
She looked down.
Gideon continued.
"That wasn't fair to her."
Lydia's throat tightened.
"Is that what you wanted from me?"
He took a slow breath.
"At first, I wanted a wife because I was tired of eating supper with two dogs."
She smiled faintly.
He looked toward her.
"But then your letters came."
Lydia lifted her eyes.
"You wrote about sewing by candlelight and wanting to see the mountains. You told me you didn't mind work as long as it was honest. You asked whether the dogs were friendly and whether I knew how to make bread."
She laughed softly.
"I was worried about the bread."
"I could tell."
He smiled.
"Then you asked whether I liked reading."
Lydia nodded.
"And you said you only owned six books."
"Seven now."
"What was the seventh?"
He looked embarrassed.
"A book of poems."
Lydia stared.
"You bought poetry?"
"After you told me you liked it."
Her cheeks warmed.
Gideon looked toward his hands.
"I didn't know what kind to get. Ruth helped me choose."
Lydia stared at him.
For years, she had been told that her needs were excessive.
That she took up too much room.
Asked for too much.
Expected too much.
Now a mountain man who barely understood poetry had bought a book because she mentioned enjoying it.
She felt tears rising.
Gideon looked alarmed.
"Was that foolish?"