“I’d tell him fear can dress itself as good judgment.”
Adelaide turned toward him.
That was the truest thing he had ever said about his younger self.
He had called fear practicality.
Standards.
Survival.
Strength.
He had learned.
Adelaide kissed his cheek.
“Not bad.”
They returned home.
At sixty-seven, Amos Pike died.
Liver.
Probably drink.
His wife Margaret sent carved pig to Adelaide.
On bottom, Amos had written years earlier:
TO THE WOMAN WHO MADE ME LEARN MANNERS AFTER FORTY.
Adelaide cried.
People can begin badly and still leave something better.
At sixty-eight, Gideon had first heart attack.
Adelaide found him beside barn.
He was conscious.
Terrified.
For once he did not argue when she called doctor.
Recovery took months.
He never regained former strength.
He hated.
Again.
Adelaide reminded.
Again.
Humans rarely learn once.
They learn repeatedly.
Gideon spent more time on porch.
Taught grandchildren.
Carved toys.
Complained.
Abigail’s oldest daughter, Ruth, loved sitting beside him.
“Grandpa, were you strong?”
“I thought so.”
“Are you now?”
He looked at Adelaide across yard.
“Yes.”
Different answer.
At seventy-two, Gideon’s heart began failing.
There was no cure.
The doctor said perhaps months.
Adelaide refused to let remaining life become waiting room for death.
They ate outside when weather allowed.
Visited graves.
Went to station once more.
Spent nights talking.
One evening Gideon asked:
“Did you ever forgive me fully?”
Adelaide thought.
“No.”
He looked surprised.
She smiled.
“That does not mean I stayed angry.”
“What difference?”
“Forgiveness isn't erasing.”
“I remember station.”
“I remember Amos.”
“I remember what it felt like.”
“Those things shaped us.”
“I don't need pretend they didn't.”
Gideon nodded.
“Fair.”
“I loved you anyway.”
He took hand.
“More than enough.”
Another night he said:
“I'm afraid.”
Adelaide squeezed.
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“You spent youth pretending fear made you weak.”
“Now you're honest.”
“I don't want to die.”
“I know.”
“I don't want to leave you.”
“I know.”
“What will you do?”
Adelaide looked around room.
“Complain.”
He laughed.
“Then?”
“Run ranch.”
“Order children around.”
“Eat too much butter.”
“Tell everyone your coffee was terrible.”
“Cruel.”
“Tell truth.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
His final week came during snow.
Of course.
Not violent storm.
Gentle.
He lay in their enormous bed.
Same frame.