She nodded.
Gideon walked to the table and carefully placed the threatening letter inside an empty tin box.
He did not hide it.
He set the box where Lydia could see it.
Then he returned to the floor beside the stove.
He sat on the blanket and began pulling off his heavy boots.
Lydia watched him.
The mountain man was still enormous.
Still scarred.
Still frightening to look at when he stood in the doorway.
But he had answered her fear with patience rather than anger.
That was something she barely knew how to understand.
As he stretched out on the blanket, she spoke softly.
"Gideon?"
He lifted his head.
"Yes?"
She swallowed.
"Thank you for not being angry."
For a moment, his expression looked almost wounded.
Then he answered.
"You've got nothing to thank me for."
Lydia lay down beneath the quilts.
She listened to the stove.
The wind.
The quiet breathing of the dogs.
And eventually, the steady sound of the mountain man sleeping on the floor.
For the first time in longer than she could remember, she fell asleep without listening for footsteps outside her door.
At dawn, Lydia woke to the smell of coffee and woodsmoke.
The blizzard had not ended.
Snow pressed against the lower portion of the window, and the wind continued to drag long white clouds across the clearing.
But the cabin was warm.
Gideon stood beside the stove, stirring something in a black iron pan.
He had already dressed in his brown wool shirt and buckskin trousers.
His hair was tied loosely behind his neck.
The dogs were awake.
One lay near the door with its head resting on enormous paws.
The other watched Gideon's every movement, apparently convinced breakfast might involve an extra piece of meat.
Lydia sat up carefully.
Her back ached from the unfamiliar mattress.
She pushed her thick hair away from her face.
Gideon turned.
"Morning."
His voice was quiet.
She looked toward the floor.
The blanket had been folded neatly beside the stove.
"Did you sleep?"
"Some."
"On the floor?"
He shrugged.
"Been sleeping on worse since I was fourteen."
Lydia frowned.
"That doesn't make it comfortable."
A faint smile appeared beneath his beard.
"No, ma'am."
She looked toward the pan.
"What are you cooking?"
"Salt pork and potatoes."
"Is there enough?"
Gideon looked almost offended.
"Enough for what?"
"For both of us."
He stared at her.
Then at the large pan.
"Lydia, there's enough here to feed six hungry trappers."
Her cheeks warmed.
"Of course."
He studied her for a moment.
Then he asked gently, "Were you told to ask permission before eating?"
Lydia's face changed.
She looked away.
Gideon seemed to regret the question.
"You don't have to answer."
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Lydia said quietly, "Everett counted the bread."
Gideon's hand stopped moving.
She stared at the quilt.
"He said I ate too much. He kept the pantry key. Sometimes he would make me tell him what I'd eaten before he gave me money for groceries."
Gideon looked toward the pan.
His jaw tightened.
But when he spoke, his voice remained gentle.
"There's no lock on that pantry."