Edward Vane.
Lydia read it twice.
Then handed it to Gideon.
He looked at the signature.
His expression darkened.
"He's not even hiding the name."
Lydia nodded.
Her hands trembled.
Gideon folded the letter carefully.
"We'll give this to Miss Mercer."
She looked toward the door.
"What if he comes here?"
Gideon considered the question.
"Then he can speak from outside."
She almost smiled.
Then her expression grew serious.
"Gideon."
He looked at her.
"I don't want you fighting him."
His jaw tightened.
"I won't start a fight."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
She stepped closer.
"Everett knows how to make other men angry. He used to do it deliberately."
Gideon listened.
"He would say something cruel, wait for the other man to strike him, and then tell everyone he was the victim."
Gideon nodded slowly.
Lydia touched his arm.
"Please don't give him that."
The mountain man looked down at her.
For a moment, he seemed to consider all the things he wanted to say about Everett Bowman.
Then he took her hand.
"I won't let him choose my actions for me."
Lydia's eyes filled.
She nodded.
"Thank you."
He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
It was a small gesture.
But she closed her eyes and held still beneath it.
For the first time, a man's tenderness did not feel like the beginning of a debt.
It felt like a promise freely given.
By Christmas, the snow around Frost Creek stood nearly four feet deep.
The cabin roof wore a thick white covering. Icicles hung from the eaves, and the path between the door and the woodpile had become a narrow passage through high banks of snow.
The mountains disappeared for days at a time behind low clouds.
Sometimes the wind howled so fiercely that Lydia could feel the cabin walls tremble.
But the little house remained warm.
Gideon kept the stove supplied.
Lydia managed the pantry.
The dogs occupied their favorite places beside the hearth.
And the small routines of their household began to acquire a rhythm that neither husband nor wife had expected.
Every morning, Gideon rose before dawn.
He checked the animals, carried water, and inspected the weather.
Lydia usually followed an hour later.
She prepared breakfast, kneaded bread, or sorted the work they intended to finish that day.
Sometimes they worked quietly.
Sometimes they talked.
Sometimes Gideon told stories about his childhood.
And sometimes Lydia read aloud while he repaired leather harnesses or carved pieces of wood beside the fire.
Their affection grew without haste.
He learned that Lydia liked her coffee with a little cream but no sugar.
She learned that Gideon disliked onions unless they were cooked until nearly sweet.
He discovered that she could mend torn saddle leather with more precision than most men he knew.
She discovered that he could carve delicate wooden flowers with hands that looked better suited to splitting logs.
One evening, he made her a small wooden comb decorated with pine needles.
Lydia stared at it.
"You carved this?"
He nodded.
"For your hair."
She ran one finger along the smooth teeth.
"It's beautiful."
He looked relieved.
"Thought it might be useful."
Lydia smiled.
"Most beautiful things are."
He looked at her.
Then slowly smiled back.
Their first kiss had not led to hurried intimacy.
Gideon still slept on the bench near the stove.
Lydia had repeatedly offered to share the bed.
But the uncertainty surrounding her first marriage troubled them both.