Then she looked toward Abigail.
"It's finished?"
"The marriage to Everett is legally dissolved."
Tears filled Lydia's eyes.
She looked down.
For years, Everett had controlled her life.
Even after she believed him dead, his lies had reached across the country and threatened the peace she found.
Now, at last, she held a document that did not belong to him.
It established a change she had sought for herself.
Abigail smiled gently.
"What you do next is your decision."
Lydia nodded.
She looked toward Gideon.
He remained standing by the stove, his face pale with emotion.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he approached.
"Lydia."
She looked up.
He swallowed.
"I want to ask you something."
Abigail quietly gathered her papers.
"I believe I'll take a walk."
Lydia smiled through tears.
The attorney stepped outside.
Gideon knelt before Lydia's chair.
The same way he had on their first night.
His enormous hands trembled.
She noticed.
And smiled.
"Still trembling?"
He laughed softly.
"Afraid so."
He looked into her eyes.
"Lydia Bowman."
She swallowed.
He took one careful breath.
"Would you marry me?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
He continued.
"Not because you're hungry. Not because you need shelter. Not because you have nowhere else to go."
His voice broke.
"But because you want to."
Lydia reached for his hands.
Gideon looked at her.
"I love you. I want to grow old with you. I want to hear you reading by the stove and arguing about how much salt belongs in the stew."
She laughed through tears.
He smiled.
"I want to make a life together, if that's what you choose."
Lydia looked toward the window.
The mountains stood beneath a pale spring sky.
The creek flowed beyond the clearing.
Her sewing business was growing.
She had savings.
Friends.
A workroom in town.
And a home she could leave if she wished.
She was no longer the frightened widow who answered a stranger's advertisement because she could not afford another week of rent.
She had choices now.
Real ones.
She looked back at Gideon.
Then she smiled.
"Yes."
His breath caught.
Lydia closed her fingers around his hands.
"Yes, Gideon Hayes. I will marry you."
He bowed his head.
A tear slipped into his beard.
She leaned forward.
"Come here."
He rose enough to reach her.
She wrapped her arms around his neck.
And kissed him.
Outside, Fern barked at something near the woodpile.
Flint answered.
The creek murmured beneath the spring sunlight.
And inside the cabin, two people who had once believed themselves too damaged for love chose each other without debt, fear, or obligation.
They married again on a clear Saturday in May.
Not in a grand church.
Not before a crowd of wealthy strangers.
Not with expensive flowers or musicians.
They chose the little white schoolhouse near Calder's Crossing, where Ruth's daughter Elsie sometimes attended lessons and where several neighboring families gathered for Sunday services.