So did Gideon.
He had stopped watching her as if waiting for collapse.
Not entirely.
But mostly.
What he did instead unsettled Adelaide more.
Whenever she went outside alone, his attention followed.
If she remained away too long, he appeared.
Not accusing.
Just there.
Once Adelaide walked to henhouse during snowfall.
Ten minutes later Gideon arrived carrying lantern.
She turned.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking fence.”
“The fence is the other direction.”
He looked toward the fence.
Then back.
“Yes.”
“You were checking on me.”
“No.”
“You are a terrible liar.”
Gideon walked past.
Adelaide smiled.
It might have become tenderness if Amos Pike had not appeared four days before Christmas.
Amos was a trapper from eight miles south.
Thin.
Red-bearded.
Loud.
The kind of man who entered another person’s home as if he owned the air inside.
Gideon seemed to know him.
Not like him.
But know.
Amos stamped snow from his boots.
“Cole.”
“Pike.”
“Coffee?”
Gideon sighed.
“You'll take it whether I say yes.”
“Correct.”
Adelaide stood at the stove.
Amos saw her.
His expression changed instantly.
“Hell.”
Adelaide’s shoulders tightened.
Gideon noticed.
Amos looked between them.
“This the mail-order bride?”
Gideon said:
“Yes.”
Amos laughed.
Not a chuckle.
A real laugh.
“Well, damn.”
Adelaide felt every old wound wake at once.
Amos removed his gloves.
“Cole, I thought you ordered a wife.”
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
Amos looked Adelaide over.
“Agency send you a pig to get through winter?”
Silence.
Adelaide could hear grease crackling in the pan.
Her fingers closed around the wooden spoon.
She did not look at Amos.
She looked at Gideon.
One word.
That was all.
Get out.
Enough.
Apologize.
Anything.
Gideon stared at the table.
He said nothing.
The pain was so immediate that Adelaide almost dropped the spoon.
Not because Amos mattered.
Men like Amos had been saying variations of the same sentence her entire life.
Gideon mattered.
She had worked beside him.
Cooked for him.
Trusted him enough to sleep under his roof.
Perhaps even begun to believe his silence could be gentler than other men’s words.
Now his silence became agreement.
Adelaide set the spoon down.
Amos continued laughing.
She walked toward the door.
Gideon looked up.
“Adelaide.”
She did not stop.
She pulled her coat from peg.
Only one arm made it fully into the sleeve before she opened the door.
Cold hit.
She walked anyway.
“Adelaide.”
Gideon called again.
She kept going.
Snow reached her ankles.
Then calves.
She did not know where she was going.
Only away.
Behind her, the cabin door closed.
For one hopeful second she thought Gideon was following.
No footsteps came.