Smiling.
Adelaide had never seen him smile like that.
“She was my wife.”
“Yes.”
“We married in 1877.”
“She came from Helena.”
“She had never lived on ranch.”
“I thought she could learn.”
Gideon sat.
“First winter was mild.”
“Second wasn't.”
“Amos came one afternoon.”
“Said Abigail was too delicate for mountains.”
“Said I should send her east before she became a grave.”
“I threw him out.”
Adelaide stared.
“That sounds like what you should have done today.”
“Yes.”
Gideon’s voice cracked.
“Abigail heard.”
“She spent months trying to prove him wrong.”
Adelaide’s anger shifted uneasily.
“She went out in weather when I told her not to.”
“Carried too much.”
“Refused help.”
“Then one morning we argued.”
“She said I didn’t believe she belonged.”
“I told her…”
He stopped.
Adelaide’s voice softened despite herself.
“What?”
Gideon stared at table.
“I told her if she wanted to prove it, she could take feed to upper cattle herself.”
Adelaide’s stomach tightened.
“A storm was coming.”
“I knew.”
“Not how bad.”
“But I knew.”
“She left.”
“Storm turned within hour.”
“I went after her.”
“Found wagon overturned.”
“Horse broke leg.”
“Abigail had tried walking back.”
“I found her under pine.”
Adelaide closed eyes.
“Alive?”
“Barely.”
Gideon looked at his hands.
“She died that night.”
The cabin seemed colder.
Adelaide understood now.
The grave.
The controls.
The fear.
But understanding was not forgiveness.
“You blamed her body.”
Gideon looked up.
“What?”
“You wanted another woman who looked stronger.”
“Yes.”
“You decided if your next wife were built differently, Abigail’s death could not repeat.”
Gideon stared.
Adelaide continued:
“That lets you avoid the real thing.”
His jaw tightened.
“What real thing?”
“You did not lose Abigail because she was delicate.”
“You lost her because both of you turned survival into proof.”
Gideon’s face changed.
Adelaide’s voice sharpened.
“And you were doing the same thing to me.”
Silence.
“I came here determined to prove I wasn’t the burden you saw at station.”
“I worked until my hands split.”
“I carried more than I needed.”
“I went outside when I was exhausted.”
“And you watched.”
“You knew exactly what it looked like.”
Gideon’s eyes filled with horror.
Because she was right.
Adelaide stood.
“I am finished.”
He looked up sharply.
“You're leaving?”
“No.”
“Winter hasn't ended.”
“And I have no money.”
“But I am finished proving.”
She held up her cracked palms.
“If wood needs chopping and I can do it, I will.”
“If it is too heavy, you will.”
“If water needs carrying, we divide it.”
“If I am tired, I rest.”
“And if Amos Pike walks into this house again and calls me an animal, I expect my husband—even a temporary one—to remember he possesses a spine.”
Gideon stared.
Then slowly nodded.
“You're right.”
“I know.”
She went to her cot.
From that day, Adelaide stopped trying.