“To do what?”
Caleb stood.
“Ask Vale.”
Beatrice grabbed his wrist.
“No.”
He looked at her hand.
Then her face.
“No?”
“If you confront him, Marcus knows I told you everything.”
“Good.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Then they destroy whatever proof remains.”
Caleb’s jaw flexed.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing tonight.”
“That will be difficult.”
“I noticed.”
Beatrice released him.
“Tomorrow we decide what can be proven.”
“We?”
She raised an eyebrow.
Caleb nodded.
“We.”
The word remained.
That night, he slept on the floor near the fire.
Beatrice protested once.
Caleb refused the bed.
Not because he did not desire her.
That was becoming a problem faster than expected.
He refused because the first night after learning she had been poisoned by men who controlled her home did not seem an appropriate moment to ask her to trust another man beside her in darkness.
Beatrice lay awake listening to him turn on the floorboards.
Finally she said, “Caleb.”
“Yes?”
“You can take the bed.”
“No.”
“It’s large.”
Silence.
“You’re my wife.”
“That is usually an argument for sharing it.”
Caleb stared at the ceiling.
“Not tonight.”
She understood.
Something warm and painful moved through her.
“Thank you.”
Caleb closed his eyes.
He did not ask for what.
The next morning, Beatrice cooked eggs.
Caleb watched every ingredient.
She noticed.
“You think I’m going to poison myself?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I don’t know.”
Beatrice looked at him.
Caleb sighed.
“I feel better seeing where the food comes from.”
Her expression softened.
“So do I.”
That became their first new habit.
For several weeks, Caleb prepared or watched most meals.
Not because Beatrice could not cook.
She was far better.
Because eating had become difficult.
Some nights she lifted a spoon and remembered metallic soup.
Caleb never told her she was being foolish.
He simply tasted first.
At first Beatrice protested.
“What if it actually is poisoned?”
“Then you know before eating.”
“That is a terrible system.”
“Yes.”
They found a better one.
Ingredients stayed sealed.
Water came from the mountain creek.
Nothing sent from Ridge Creek entered the pantry unopened.
When a parcel arrived from Marcus three days later, Caleb carried it outside without touching the contents.
Inside were preserves.
Tea.
A letter.
Beatrice read first.
My dear Beatrice,
I hope married life has brought you the peace you were seeking. Dr. Vale asked that I send the remainder of your restorative tonic. Mountain air can be taxing until you acclimate.
Your loving father,
Marcus.
Caleb stared at the bottle inside.
“Loving.”
Beatrice’s mouth tightened.
“He wants me to keep taking it.”
“Yes.”
Caleb looked toward the horse track leading north.
“Or wants to know whether you are.”
Beatrice nodded.
“What do we do?”
Caleb smiled without humor.
“Write back that you feel wonderfully weak.”
She looked at him.
“That is almost intelligent.”
“Almost?”
“Don’t become proud.”
They sent a letter thanking Marcus.
Beatrice wrote that travel had exhausted her and she spent much of each day resting.
Dr. Vale’s tonic was “very helpful.”
Then they waited.
Caleb began teaching her the mountain property.
The homestead comprised eighty acres.
Most timbered.
A meadow.
Creek frontage.