“That will not be necessary.”
Adelaide said:
“Agreed.”
The stationmaster later told that story for years.
Neither Adelaide nor Gideon ever found it as funny as he did.
The ride north took nearly four hours.
For the first hour, neither spoke.
Adelaide sat wrapped beneath a buffalo robe in the wagon, her trunk tied behind them.
Gideon handled the team.
Snow covered the road gradually until the track became a pale suggestion between pines.
Adelaide looked at the mountains.
They were bigger than anything in Missouri.
Not simply tall.
Present.
The landscape made human concerns seem temporarily foolish.
She understood why people came west and became different.
Or disappeared.
“How much farther?”
“Eleven miles.”
Adelaide looked at the snow.
“You said twenty from town.”
“We've gone nine.”
“That felt like forty.”
“Winter.”
They traveled another half hour.
Adelaide noticed Gideon glancing toward her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep looking.”
“You're not complaining.”
She stared.
“Were you waiting?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Gideon looked toward horses.
“I expected questions.”
“I asked one.”
“More.”
“What should I ask?”
“Whether we’re lost.”
“Are we?”
“No.”
“Then that would be wasted.”
A corner of his mouth shifted.
Not quite a smile.
Adelaide noticed and decided not to reward him for it.
The ranch appeared after darkness.
First a lantern.
Then a barn.
Then the cabin.
It was larger than Adelaide expected but rough.
One main room.
Kitchen corner.
Stone fireplace.
A bedroom behind a partition.
A narrow cot beside the stove.
Gideon set her trunk near the wall.
“That’s yours.”
He pointed to the cot.
Adelaide looked at it.
Then at him.
The cot was narrow.
Very narrow.
He saw her expression.
“It’s what I have.”
She sat carefully.
The wooden slats creaked ominously.
Gideon winced.
Adelaide stood again.
Humiliation rose hot beneath her skin.
“I can sleep on the floor.”
“No.”
His answer surprised her.
He crossed the room, crouched beside cot, and examined the frame.
“Old slats.”
“I said floor is fine.”
“You didn't come across half the country to sleep on floor.”
“You didn't want me to come at all.”
The words landed.
Gideon kept looking at the frame.
“That doesn't mean you sleep on boards.”
He went outside.
Adelaide stood alone.
Five minutes later he returned carrying two thick timber lengths.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“I haven't asked.”
“I know.”
He lifted the cot, braced the center, added a cross support, then sat heavily on it himself.
It held.
Gideon weighed perhaps two hundred thirty pounds.
Adelaide watched.
He stood.
“Try.”
She did.
The cot remained firm.
Adelaide ran one hand over the blanket.
“Thank you.”
Gideon nodded.
Then pointed to the bedroom.
“I’ll sleep there.”