Folded blankets.
Washed windows.
Found mouse nests.
Gideon returned one evening, looked around, and said:
“Where is everything?”
“Where it belongs.”
“It belonged where it was.”
“Your salt was beside ammunition.”
“Both need to stay dry.”
Mabel stared.
“That is not organization.”
“It worked.”
“It was barbarism.”
He almost smiled.
They argued.
Then laughed.
The cabin changed.
So did Mabel.
At first Gideon noticed her appetite was small.
Too small for the body everyone mocked.
She ate slowly.
Often stopped halfway.
Then apologized.
“Why?”
“I’m full.”
“No. Why apologize?”
She looked down.
“Habit.”
He said nothing.
Later he began serving food without watching how much she took.
No comments.
No judgment.
No praise when she ate less.
No criticism when she ate more.
Mabel realized how rarely anyone had allowed food to simply be food.
Her strength slowly improved.
The swelling in her ankles lessened.
Headaches became less frequent.
She slept deeply.
Gideon watched all of it.
On the tenth day, he said:
“You look different.”
Mabel stiffened instantly.
He saw.
“Not smaller.”
She almost laughed.
“Then what?”
“Less gray.”
She touched her cheek.
“Healthy?”
“Yes.”
The word felt unfamiliar.
She looked toward the medicine vial.
“Then I was right.”
Gideon followed her gaze.
“Probably.”
“We still need proof.”
“We’ll get it.”
“How?”
He leaned against the table.
“I sent a letter.”
“To whom?”
“Denver.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“Doctor I trust.”
“Doctors helped Jonah.”
“This one hates me.”
Mabel blinked.
“Then why trust him?”
“He tells me when I’m wrong.”
“That is an unusual standard.”
“Useful one.”
The doctor was named Silas Merritt.
A former army surgeon.
He had treated Gideon after the mining accident.
Also the man who supposedly told Gideon he could never father children.
Mabel nearly asked about that.
Didn’t.
Not yet.
The subject arrived anyway.
Two nights later snow trapped them indoors.
Wind shook the shutters.
Gideon fed the fire.
Mabel sat near the hearth mending a shirt.
She had become comfortable enough to wear a simple cream house dress rather than layers designed to hide herself.
Gideon noticed.
Pretended not to.
That made her more aware of his noticing.
Dangerous cycle.
Mabel threaded the needle.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Probably.”
“That is not permission.”
“Ask.”
She hesitated.
“The town says…”
Gideon groaned.
“Nothing good begins that way.”
She smiled.
“The town says you cannot have children.”
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Something older.
“Yes.”
Mabel stopped sewing.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I know.”
He added wood.
Then sat opposite her.
“My wife and I tried.”