One evening, she finally asked why he insisted on waiting.
He looked embarrassed.
"Lydia, I want you."
She smiled faintly.
"I've noticed."
His cheeks reddened beneath his beard.
She laughed softly.
Then he continued.
"But I don't want you waking one morning thinking you owed me something because I gave you shelter."
Her smile faded.
He looked toward the stove.
"And I don't want a question about a marriage certificate to become something you regret."
Lydia studied him.
"What if I never regret choosing you?"
Gideon looked up.
His expression softened.
"Then we'll have plenty of time."
She reached for his hand.
He took it.
And for a while, they sat together listening to the wind.
Christmas morning arrived with clear skies.
Lydia woke to the smell of cinnamon and coffee.
She sat up.
The cabin was brighter than usual.
Gideon had hung small evergreen branches along the beams.
A few wooden ornaments decorated the shelf.
Beside the stove stood a tiny pine tree no taller than Lydia's waist.
It rested inside an old wooden bucket.
She stared.
"Gideon?"
He turned from the stove.
"Merry Christmas."
Lydia looked toward the tree.
"Where did you find that?"
"Out beyond the creek."
"You brought it inside?"
He nodded.
She looked at the wooden ornaments.
Tiny stars.
A horse.
A pair of mittens.
And one delicate carved heart.
Her eyes filled.
"Did you make all of these?"
Gideon shrugged.
"Had some spare wood."
Lydia looked toward him.
"Gideon."
He seemed worried.
"Don't you like it?"
She shook her head.
"No. I love it."
He smiled.
Then pointed toward a small parcel beneath the tree.
"There's something there for you."
Lydia stared.
"You bought me a present?"
"Made it."
She knelt carefully beside the bucket.
The parcel was wrapped in brown paper and tied with blue thread.
She opened it.
Inside lay a small wooden writing desk.
Not a full-sized piece of furniture, but a portable lap desk with a hinged lid, compartments for paper and ink, and a smooth writing surface.
The wood had been sanded until it felt almost silky beneath her fingers.
On the inside of the lid, Gideon had carved a simple inscription.
For all the words you have yet to write.
Lydia stared.
She pressed one hand against her mouth.
Gideon looked uncomfortable.
"You said you wanted somewhere to keep your letters."
She nodded.
"I did."
"I thought it might help."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Gideon stepped closer.
"Lydia?"
She looked up.
"I've never had a Christmas present like this."
He knelt beside her.
She touched the inscription.