“Door stays open?”
“If you prefer.”
“I prefer closed.”
He nodded again.
“Closed.”
Their marriage began like a military truce.
The first week established its boundaries.
Gideon woke before dawn.
Adelaide woke shortly after.
She discovered the pantry was organized with the precision of a man who feared running out of everything.
Flour.
Beans.
Salt pork.
Dried apples.
Coffee.
Sugar.
Rice.
Potatoes.
Two shelves of canned vegetables.
A barrel of oats.
Another of cornmeal.
Everything labeled in Gideon’s square handwriting.
The first morning, Adelaide cooked biscuits.
Gideon stared at them.
“What?”
“You used butter.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“We ration butter.”
“Then your rationing has been unnecessarily miserable.”
He stared.
She stared back.
He ate four biscuits.
The next morning she made six more.
The farm itself was not enormous.
Twenty cattle.
Four mules.
Two horses.
A milk cow.
Chickens.
A barn that leaned slightly west.
A woodpile large enough to survive an invasion.
Gideon showed her the well.
The creek.
The feed stores.
The smokehouse.
He explained every danger as if expecting her to fail an examination.
“Snow can bury this path.”
“I see.”
“Never go to upper pasture if clouds are moving from west.”
“Why?”
“Wind shifts.”
“Visibility disappears.”
“All right.”
“If temperature drops suddenly, come inside.”
“Obviously.”
“Not obvious.”
His voice changed.
Only slightly.
Adelaide noticed.
“Did something happen?”
Gideon looked away.
“No.”
That was the first lie she heard from him.
She did not challenge it.
Not yet.
Adelaide worked.
Partly because work needed doing.
Partly because she wanted to prove him wrong.
Mostly, in the first month, because anger is excellent fuel when used carefully.
She carried water.
Not as much as Gideon could.
But enough.
She split kindling.
Not heavy logs.
She learned the wedge.
She fed cattle.
Cleaned stalls.
Mended harness.
Organized pantry.
Made soap.
Repaired three of Gideon’s shirts.
Washed windows.
Rendered lard.
Baked bread twice weekly.
One morning she discovered Gideon had been buying preserved beans from town at three times the cost of keeping them himself.
She nearly shouted.
“You own land.”
“Yes.”
“You have a garden.”
“Summer.”
“Then why did you buy this?”
She held up a jar.
“I don't preserve.”
“You know how to slaughter a bull but cannot seal beans?”
“Yes.”
“Embarrassing.”
Gideon glared.
Adelaide spent afternoon laughing.
By December, the pantry looked different.