That hurt worse.
Adelaide walked into the trees.
She walked until the cabin disappeared.
Then until she could no longer hear Amos’s voice in her imagination.
Finally she sat beneath a cedar.
The coat was barely fastened.
Her cheeks burned with tears.
“Fool.”
She whispered to herself.
Not Amos.
Not Gideon.
Herself.
For believing work could purchase respect from someone who had decided at the station that she was something lesser.
She had made herself useful.
Useful did not mean loved.
Not even defended.
Adelaide cried until breathing hurt.
Then she saw the cross.
A small wooden cross stood half-buried twenty feet away.
She might have missed it if wind had not blown snow from one side.
Adelaide rose.
She brushed it clean.
The carving was simple.
ABIGAIL COLE
Beneath:
THE MOUNTAIN TOOK HER
JANUARY 1879
Adelaide stared.
Wife.
Gideon had been married.
A year after year perhaps? It was now 1887, eight years ago.
Adelaide touched the wood.
Something shifted.
The obsessive warnings.
The pantry.
The firewood.
The way Gideon watched weather.
The way he appeared whenever Adelaide stayed outdoors too long.
His insistence on strength.
His horror at vulnerability.
None excused his silence.
But suddenly it had shape.
Adelaide wiped her face.
When she returned, Amos was gone.
Gideon stood by fire.
He looked furious.
At himself, she realized.
Not enough.
“Where did you go?”
Adelaide removed coat.
“That’s not your concern.”
“Storm is moving.”
“I noticed.”
“You left without fastening—”
“Stop.”
Gideon stopped.
Adelaide looked directly at him.
“I found Abigail.”
Color drained from his face.
For several seconds neither moved.
Then Gideon said:
“You shouldn't have gone that far.”
Adelaide laughed once.
“That is what you have to say?”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked toward fire.
“Not tonight.”
Adelaide’s anger returned.
“Of course.”
“You get to decide when truth arrives too.”
Gideon flinched.
She continued.
“I do not need you to explain why Amos said what he said.”
“I need to know why you sat there.”
Gideon swallowed.
“I don't know.”
“That is cowardly.”
“Yes.”
“Did you agree with him?”
His head snapped toward her.
“No.”
“Then why?”
Gideon’s hands tightened.
Adelaide waited.
Finally:
“Because the last time I defended a woman against him, she died three days later.”
Adelaide froze.
“What?”
Gideon closed eyes.
Then:
“Abigail.”
He walked toward bedroom.
Adelaide thought conversation was over.
Instead he returned with a small tin box.
He placed it on table.
Inside were letters.
A photograph.
A pressed wildflower.
Gideon picked up photograph.
A slender young woman with light hair stood beside him.
Gideon looked younger.