“Then don’t tonight.”
She frowned.
“I’ll still believe it tomorrow.”
The simplicity broke her.
She leaned forward and kissed him.
Their intimacy unfolded slowly.
Consent became part of desire, not interruption.
Sometimes Adelaide said stop.
Gideon stopped.
Sometimes she laughed because her knee cramped.
Sometimes he laughed because beard tickled.
Once the bed gave a frightening crack.
They froze.
Then both began laughing so hard they had to stop entirely.
The next morning Gideon added two more supports.
Adelaide stood in doorway.
“You are rebuilding a bridge.”
“I trust you.”
“I don't trust cheap timber.”
She threw towel.
By spring, their marriage had become real in every sense that mattered.
Then came the promise.
On the first warm day in April, Gideon hitched wagon.
“Where?”
Adelaide asked.
“Dry Creek.”
“Why?”
“Business.”
“What business?”
“Ours.”
At the courthouse he handed her an envelope.
Inside was a recorded deed.
Half ownership of the ranch.
Adelaide stared.
“What is this?”
“I filed it before the storm.”
“Before?”
“Two weeks before.”
“Why?”
Gideon looked uncomfortable.
“I realized the agreement at station was wrong.”
“You had nowhere to go.”
“I had land.”
“I brought you here.”
“You worked.”
“You improved everything.”
“And I had all legal power.”
“That wasn't right.”
Adelaide looked at deed.
“You gave me half.”
“You earned more.”
“No.”
She looked sharply.
“Do not say that.”
Gideon corrected.
“You deserve security regardless of what you earned.”
Better.
Adelaide’s eyes filled.
“You thought I might leave.”
“Yes.”
“And still gave me half.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So if you left, you would leave because you chose.”
“Not because I could throw you out.”
She stared.
This was what love looked like too.
Not only kisses.
Power surrendered voluntarily.
Adelaide folded deed.
“I’m not leaving.”
Gideon’s eyes widened slightly.
“No?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
She smiled.
“Unfortunately.”
He laughed.
They stopped at Dry Creek station before returning.
Same platform.
Different weather.
Snow gone.
Mud instead.
Adelaide stood where train had dropped her months earlier.
Gideon removed hat.
She looked.
“What?”
“I owe this place an apology.”
“The station?”
“You.”
She smiled.
Gideon stood in front of her.
“Adelaide Miller.”
“Cole.”
He shook head.
“Not for this.”
He took her hand.
“If you stepped off that train today, knowing what I know now…”
“Yes?”
“I would ask whether you were cold.”
Her eyes filled.