Lydia looked up.
"I noticed."
"Food's for eating. That's why it's here."
She swallowed.
He placed an extra slice of bread on a plate.
"And if you want more, you take more."
Her eyes filled.
Gideon turned back toward the stove before she could see the emotion rising in his own face.
Lydia watched his broad back.
Something about his refusal to make a grand speech comforted her.
He had simply told her how the household worked.
No conditions.
No threats.
No bargaining.
After breakfast, he brought a large wooden chair closer to the stove.
"Here."
Lydia examined it.
The chair was wide, sturdy, and roughly built.
Its arms had been smoothed with careful sanding.
A folded wool blanket rested across the seat.
She ran one hand along the wood.
"Did you make this?"
Gideon nodded.
"Last month."
"For me?"
He looked uncomfortable.
"I figured the other chairs might be narrow."
Lydia stared at him.
Everett had once forced her to sit on a delicate dining chair in front of guests, then laughed when it creaked beneath her.
Gideon had built a chair that would hold her comfortably.
Before she ever arrived.
Without knowing exactly how she looked.
She lowered herself into it.
The seat was broad.
The back supported her properly.
For the first time in years, she did not have to squeeze herself between wooden arms or wonder whether the furniture might break.
She looked up.
"It fits."
Gideon seemed relieved.
"Good."
Lydia touched the armrest again.
"Thank you."
He shrugged.
"Just a chair."
She looked down.
To him, perhaps.
To her, it was something much more.
The cabin stood in a secluded valley beneath the eastern slopes of the Wind River Mountains.
Gideon called the place Frost Creek.
The name came from the narrow stream that ran through the clearing, feeding a larger river farther south.
In summer, the valley turned green.
Wildflowers grew along the water.
Deer came down from the timber.
And the mountains rose above the trees like gray stone walls.
In winter, the entire place disappeared beneath snow.
The nearest settlement, Calder's Crossing, lay almost eighteen miles away.
The route followed an old wagon trail, crossed two shallow creeks, and wound through a narrow pass where drifting snow could make travel impossible for weeks.
Gideon had lived there for nearly fourteen years.
He trapped in winter, guided travelers when weather permitted, repaired harnesses and wagons, and occasionally worked with survey crews or timber contractors.
His father had established the cabin before him.
His mother had planted the small patch of hardy roses that still survived near the south wall.
His younger brother Elias had spent his childhood running barefoot through the clearing.
Now both parents were gone.
So was Elias.
And Gideon had spent the previous year alone with two dogs and memories he could not change.
Lydia learned these things gradually.
Gideon did not speak easily.
He answered questions honestly but rarely volunteered details.
He seemed more comfortable explaining how to bank a stove overnight than describing his own feelings.
Still, he listened.
When Lydia asked about the mountain dogs, he told her their names.
The larger, dark-gray male was Flint.
The smaller, silver-brown female was Fern.
"They aren't wolves," Gideon explained when Lydia looked uncertain.
"They look like wolves."
"Part shepherd. Part northern sled dog. A little of something their mothers never told me."
Lydia laughed.
It surprised both of them.
Gideon turned toward her.
A faint smile crossed his face.
She looked down, suddenly shy.