"My brother was a careful man. Better on those mountain paths than most of the trappers in the valley. But there had been rain for days, and the bridge was old."
He lowered his head.
"I buried him beside our mother."
Lydia watched him.
For the first time, she noticed how much pain lay beneath the mountain man's quiet manner.
He had not been trembling because he found her repulsive.
He had been trembling because he was carrying grief, loneliness, and a secret that seemed to have arrived at the worst possible moment.
She looked toward the letter.
"Did you know who I was before you married me?"
Gideon raised his head.
"I knew your name from your letters."
"Did you know Everett Bowman?"
"No."
"Did you arrange for me to come here because of this?"
His expression changed.
"Lydia, no."
She swallowed.
"Then how can you explain it?"
"I can't."
He looked toward the date.
"I received that packet this morning. I hadn't read the letter. I didn't know your first husband was connected to my brother's work."
Lydia wanted to believe him.
Something in his face urged her to.
But she had once trusted Everett.
And she had paid dearly for that mistake.
She drew her hands into her lap.
"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
Gideon did not appear offended.
He looked at her for a moment.
Then rose from his knee and walked toward the oak table.
He opened a drawer.
Inside were several folded papers tied with string.
He brought them to the bed and placed them beside her.
"Our correspondence."
Lydia recognized the first envelope.
Her own handwriting.
The letter she had sent in August after reading an advertisement for a widower or bachelor willing to provide an honest home to a woman who could manage a household.
She opened it.
The next was Gideon's reply.
Plain words.
No poetry.
No promises of riches.
Just a description of the cabin, the work, the mountains, and the solitude.
The dates were clear.
They had begun writing months before the suspicious letter reached Gideon.
She looked up.
He remained standing at a respectful distance.
"I can't prove what I don't know," he said. "But I won't ask you to trust me just because we signed a paper."
Lydia swallowed.
Outside, the wind screamed.
The cabin walls creaked.
For a moment, she felt terribly far from everything familiar.
"What happens now?" she whispered.
Gideon looked toward the stove.
"Tonight, you sleep."
"And tomorrow?"
"We talk about what we know."
"And if Everett is alive?"
Gideon went still.
Lydia could barely force the words out.
"If he's alive, then I may not even be your wife."
The mountain man looked at her.
His face softened.
"Lydia."
She stared.
He took one careful step closer.
"Whatever that paper says, you're not going out into this storm."
A tear slid down her cheek.
"I can't pay you."
"I didn't ask you to."
"I can't promise you anything."
"I know."
She looked toward the narrow bed.
Then toward the blanket on the floor.
"You still mean to sleep there?"
Gideon nodded.
"If that's what lets you feel safe."
Lydia lowered her eyes.
For a long moment, she could not speak.
Then she whispered, "Would you leave the lantern burning?"
His answer came immediately.
"All night, if you want."