"What?"
He swallowed.
"That I love you."
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Lydia began crying.
Not from fear.
Not from shame.
But from the overwhelming realization that the words she had longed to hear were being offered freely.
Gideon touched her cheek.
"May I kiss you?"
She nodded.
He bent toward her.
Their lips met.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
With none of the hesitation of their first kiss, but all of its care.
When they separated, Lydia rested her forehead against his chest.
Gideon wrapped his arms around her.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then he whispered, "I'll stand beside you."
She closed her eyes.
"Thank you."
He kissed her hair.
"And when you tell me to let you speak, I'll listen."
Lydia smiled.
"That may be the most romantic promise you've made yet."
Gideon laughed softly.
Then held her a little closer.
The evidence against Everett and Rusk grew during the spring thaw.
An independent surveyor named Benjamin Haldane arrived from Denver at Miss Mercer's request.
He was sixty-two, spare-framed, and famous among his colleagues for being almost painfully precise.
He traveled with a measuring chain, instruments, notebooks, and a young assistant.
Gideon guided him through the lower valley.
Lydia accompanied them on days when the terrain permitted.
The survey took weeks.
Snow complicated the work.
Creek banks were muddy.
Some old markers had disappeared beneath fallen trees.
But Haldane was patient.
He compared Elias's field notes against surviving government plats, physical landmarks, and earlier surveys.
He examined the North Fork spring.
Measured the creek.
Checked the disputed boundary.
And eventually reached a conclusion.
The map used by Rusk's company did not correspond to the actual terrain or the older recorded measurements.
The discrepancy was substantial.
It affected access to a road, portions of the creek, and several neighboring claims.
Haldane refused to speculate about who had altered the map.
But he could document the differences.
That mattered.
Because the altered survey had supported business arrangements involving land and water access.
And those arrangements had affected more than Gideon.
Ruth's ranch.
Two small cattle holdings.
A timber operation.
Several families who depended on the upper road.
Lydia stood beside Haldane one afternoon while he recorded measurements.
She looked toward the creek.
"So my husband and Mr. Rusk wanted people to believe the spring was somewhere else?"
Haldane adjusted his glasses.
"More precisely, the documents presented a boundary inconsistent with the established physical and recorded evidence."
Lydia smiled faintly.
"You're very careful with words."
The surveyor looked at her.
"Madam, a careless word can ruin a careful measurement."
She laughed.
Then looked toward Gideon.
He was standing beside a pine tree, watching Haldane's assistant work.
Lydia felt an ache of tenderness.
Elias had tried to prove these same discrepancies.
He had died before his work could be completed.
Now others were continuing it.
Not by relying on his name.
Not by accepting his journal unquestioningly.
But by checking.
Measuring.
Comparing.
And preserving the results.
She looked toward the river.
For the first time, she felt that justice might be possible without requiring anyone to become extraordinary.