“You could.”
She waited.
“You could also slip and break an ankle.”
He held up both arms.
Beatrice stared.
“I’m heavy.”
“That doesn’t change where the rocks are.”
Something tightened inside her chest.
Not because he denied her size.
Because he did not.
He simply treated the fact as unrelated to dignity.
“I can use the step.”
“The step is cracked.”
“Then why is it there?”
“Decoration, apparently.”
She almost laughed.
Caleb waited.
“May I?”
The question mattered.
Beatrice nodded.
He placed one arm behind her back and another under her knees.
She tensed instinctively.
Caleb lifted.
His jaw tightened with effort because she was indeed heavy.
But there was no joke.
No exaggerated grunt.
No performance.
He set her carefully on solid ground.
Then immediately released her.
Beatrice stared at him.
Caleb misread the expression.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He turned toward the trunk.
That was all.
Beatrice looked away before he saw how close she was to tears.
The cabin was worse than he described.
Dust covered shelves.
Tools occupied half the table.
A coat hung from a chair.
Two chipped plates sat beside the washbasin.
The bed was large.
That was impossible not to notice.
Beatrice looked away.
Caleb noticed her noticing.
His face went red beneath the beard.
“I can sleep in the loft.”
Beatrice looked up.
There was a narrow storage loft above the kitchen.
“You’ll break your neck.”
“I’ve slept there.”
“That explains the scar.”
He almost smiled.
“No.”
Beatrice walked farther inside.
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
Caleb nodded.
“Good.”
He left to stable the horses.
Beatrice stood alone.
Wife.
The word still felt absurd.
She looked around.
Dust.
Tools.
Cold fireplace.
One of Caleb’s shirts had been thrown over the back of a chair.
She picked it up.
Then stopped.
She was already doing it.
Cleaning.
Serving.
Making herself useful before anyone asked because usefulness had always been the safest way to justify her presence.
Beatrice slowly put the shirt back exactly where she found it.
Then smiled.
Progress.
Five minutes later, she picked it up again.
Old habits did not disappear because one recognized them.
By the time Caleb returned, the fire was burning.
The tools had been moved to one end of the table.
His clothes were folded.
A pot of venison stew simmered over the stove.
He stopped inside the doorway.
“What happened?”
Beatrice looked around.
“You were robbed by a woman who leaves stew.”
Caleb inhaled.
His expression softened.
“That smells…”
“Edible?”
“Better than edible.”
“Dangerous praise before tasting.”
They ate.
For several minutes, only the fire spoke.
Beatrice expected the conversation.
Marriage.
Bed.
Rights.
Duties.
Children.
The rumors about Caleb’s inability to father them.
Instead, he ate two bowls and asked whether she needed another blanket.
Then he stared at the stew.
“There’s something I don’t understand.”
Beatrice’s spoon stopped.
Here it was.
“What?”
“Marcus practically paid me to take you away.”