“And I went outside anyway.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot prevent another tragedy by reenacting the part before it.”
Gideon stared at her.
Adelaide continued.
“You've spent eight years trying to control everything Abigail once did.”
“How much firewood.”
“How much food.”
“When weather turns.”
“How far a woman walks.”
“How much weight she can carry.”
“And then you chose a wife by looking at her body and deciding whether she could survive.”
Gideon looked as though she had struck him.
Adelaide did not stop.
“You told yourself you were being practical.”
“But really you were frightened.”
“Yes.”
“You were trying to find a woman death couldn't take.”
Silence.
Gideon’s eyes filled.
“There is no such woman.”
Adelaide whispered.
“No.”
“There isn't.”
Something in Gideon seemed to collapse.
Not physically.
A belief.
A defense built over years.
He stared at the ceiling.
“I loved her.”
“I know.”
“I told her to go.”
“I know.”
“She died because—”
“No.”
Gideon turned toward Adelaide.
She moved closer.
“She died in a storm.”
“I sent her into.”
“You said something cruel.”
“Yes.”
“You will carry that.”
“Yes.”
“But do not make Abigail responsible for every choice you make until you die.”
Gideon’s breathing trembled.
“That is another way of turning her death into your life.”
He stared.
Adelaide sat again.
“I found her grave because you were too afraid to tell me she existed.”
“I found your guilt because Amos humiliated me.”
“I nearly lost you because you walked into a blizzard after a cow.”
Gideon managed:
“That cow is valuable.”
Adelaide looked at him.
He smiled weakly.
She started laughing.
Against every intention.
Then crying at the same time.
Gideon’s eyes filled too.
Adelaide covered her face.
“This marriage is ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“You rejected me.”
“Yes.”
“I hated you.”
“I know.”
“I still might.”
“Fair.”
“And I told you I loved you while you were half unconscious.”
Gideon’s face softened.
“I remember.”
Adelaide froze.
“You remember?”
“Yes.”
Her cheeks burned.
“I thought you might not.”
“I remember every word.”
“Fever causes hallucinations.”
“Then I hallucinated you telling me you loved me.”
Adelaide looked away.
Gideon whispered:
“Did you mean it?”
She did not answer immediately.
The cabin suddenly felt too small.
The same body Gideon had once judged now seemed to contain a heart much too large for the space available.
Adelaide looked at him.
“I don't know what I meant.”
He nodded.
That answer seemed to hurt.
But he accepted it.
She continued.
“I know I was terrified.”
“I know I thought you were dying.”
“I know the idea of losing you felt unbearable.”
“That may be love.”
Gideon watched her.
“Or fear.”
“Or gratitude.”
“Or loneliness.”
“I don't want to promise something because the storm frightened me.”
His expression softened.