Mabel knew he had been married before.
He rarely said her name.
“Four years.”
“No children.”
He looked at the fire.
“After she died, Merritt examined me because I was injured in the mine collapse.”
He shrugged slightly.
“Said there was damage.”
“And?”
“And children were unlikely.”
“Unlikely.”
“Yes.”
“Not impossible.”
Gideon looked at her.
“That is what he said.”
Mabel thought of every whisper at church.
Barren mountain man.
Broken buck.
“They turned unlikely into never.”
“Town prefers certainty.”
She looked at him.
“Did it hurt?”
His eyes narrowed.
“The injury?”
“No.”
Understanding came slowly.
“The rumor.”
Gideon looked away.
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised her.
He continued:
“Not because I needed children to prove something.”
Mabel listened.
“Because people acted like it made my first marriage incomplete.”
His jaw tightened.
“She died from pneumonia.”
“They still whispered that maybe she was unhappy because we had no family.”
Mabel’s heart ached.
“We were a family.”
She set the sewing aside.
“Yes.”
His eyes met hers.
Something passed.
Recognition.
Two people judged by what their bodies supposedly failed to produce.
Gideon said:
“That’s why I nearly drew at the church.”
“The joke.”
“Yes.”
“They weren’t only mocking you.”
“No.”
Mabel looked at her hands.
“They’ve mocked me so long I thought it stopped mattering.”
“It didn’t.”
“No.”
Gideon moved to the chair beside her.
Close.
Not touching.
Mabel turned toward him.
“Do you want children?”
He thought.
“With someone who wants them.”
Her heart beat harder.
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then no.”
“What if she can’t?”
“Then no difference.”
Mabel studied him.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“Most things are.”
“No.”
“People make them complicated to avoid admitting what they actually want.”
Mabel’s voice softened.
“What do you want?”
Gideon looked directly at her.
Silence stretched.
Then:
“You.”
She stopped breathing.
He did not move.
Mabel whispered:
“That is very direct.”
“You asked.”
“I regret it.”
“No, you don’t.”
She smiled nervously.
“No.”
Gideon’s hand moved toward hers.
Stopped.
Mabel placed her hand into his.
His fingers closed.
Warm.
Steady.
She looked at him.
“If you kiss me now…”
“Yes?”
“I may not stop at one.”
His eyes darkened.
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
Gideon leaned closer.
“Should I be afraid?”
Mabel whispered:
“Probably.”
He kissed her.
This time there was no congregation.
No preacher.
No audience.
The kiss began slowly.
Then deepened.
Mabel’s hand moved to his chest.
Gideon’s arm circled her waist.