Adelaide hated that it looked like guilt.
She did not want pity.
“If you leave me here,” she said, “I have nowhere to sleep tonight.”
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
The stationmaster had begun locking the luggage room.
Snow thickened beyond the roof.
Gideon looked away.
Adelaide could have begged.
She did not.
Instead, something harder rose inside her.
Anger.
Not the explosive kind.
The useful kind.
She placed one gloved hand on her trunk.
“Give me until spring.”
Gideon looked back.
“What?”
“You've already decided what I can do without seeing me do anything.”
“That isn't—”
“It is exactly what you've done.”
His eyes narrowed.
Adelaide’s heart hammered, but she continued.
“Take me to your ranch.”
“Let me work.”
“Let winter decide whether I belong there.”
Gideon gave a short humorless laugh.
“You want winter to judge you?”
“It appears fairer than you.”
That silenced him.
Adelaide felt a tiny satisfaction.
“If spring comes and I have been the burden you expect,” she said, “I will leave.”
“With what money?”
“I’ll earn it.”
“How?”
“I can cook.”
“Sew.”
“Keep accounts.”
“Preserve food.”
“Milk cows.”
“Tend chickens.”
“I know basic animal care.”
“I worked my uncle’s farm for fourteen years.”
That caught his attention.
“The agency said you were from St. Louis.”
“I boarded there.”
“I lived outside Lebanon.”
“Farm country.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of farm?”
“Corn.”
“Hogs.”
“A few dairy cows.”
“Forty acres when the bank wasn't trying to own fifty.”
Gideon studied her differently.
Not warmly.
But differently.
Adelaide saw the exact moment he realized he had assumed more than her strength.
She pressed.
“You wanted a strong woman.”
“You have not asked me how strong I am.”
He looked toward the road where his wagon waited beneath accumulating snow.
Then at Adelaide again.
“You truly have nowhere else?”
“No.”
The words cost her.
Gideon exhaled slowly.
“There’s a preacher in town.”
Adelaide stared.
“If we go north together unmarried, people will make your life miserable.”
“You already refused marriage.”
“I said I would not register it.”
“And now?”
He looked almost angry at himself.
“We make it legal.”
“For appearances.”
“Yes.”
“And until spring?”
“You have your room.”
“I have mine.”
“If you still want to leave when the thaw comes, I’ll pay the train fare myself.”
Adelaide searched his face.
“Do you expect marital rights?”
His expression hardened immediately.
“No.”
The speed of the answer surprised her.
“You will owe me no such thing.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
They stared at each other.
It was perhaps the least romantic marriage proposal in the history of Montana.
Adelaide picked up the green ribbon.
“Then find your preacher.”
They were married at five twenty that afternoon.
The minister’s wife served as witness.
The stationmaster served as the second.
Adelaide wore the same brown traveling dress in which Gideon had rejected her.
Gideon looked like a man attending his own sentencing.
When the preacher said, “You may kiss your bride,” neither moved.
The preacher coughed.
His wife looked down.
Gideon said: