She had forgotten what one looked like.
Gideon climbed down.
When he opened the door, warmth rolled over them.
Sarah gasped.
Bess whispered, “Oh.”
The children rushed inside.
Martha stayed on the threshold.
The main room smelled like cedar, woodsmoke, and stew.
Clean blankets sat folded beside the hearth.
A kettle steamed.
Shelves held jars of beans, flour, preserved berries, salt, and herbs.
There were onions hanging from rafters.
Potatoes filled a wooden bin.
More food than Martha’s children had seen in months.
Gideon stood behind her.
“You coming in?”
She swallowed.
“Yes.”
Supper nearly broke her.
Not because anything terrible happened.
Because nothing did.
Gideon ladled venison stew into four bowls before filling his own.
When Caleb ate too fast, Gideon quietly pushed a cup of milk toward him.
When Sarah asked whether she could have another biscuit, Gideon said, “There are twelve.”
Sarah’s eyes widened.
“Twelve?”
“Counted.”
“Can I have two?”
“You can have twelve.”
Martha shot him a look.
“Two.”
Sarah grinned.
Bess fell asleep with potato on her cheek.
Martha carried her to the hearth.
Then Gideon stood.
“Sleeping arrangements.”
Her stomach dropped.
Of course.
There it was.
The part she had tried not to imagine.
Food was never free.
Roofs were never free.
Men did not offer marriage because a woman had kind eyes.
Martha stood slowly.
Gideon walked down the hall.
He opened a bedroom.
“Just look.”
One large timber bed stood against the far wall.
Across from it were three smaller beds.
New beds.
Fresh pine.
New mattresses.
Thick quilts.
One blue.
One green.
One yellow.
Martha touched the nearest bedframe.
Pine shavings still lay beneath it.
“You built these?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Started two weeks ago.”
Martha spun around.
“Two weeks?”
Gideon nodded.
“You hadn’t even asked me.”
“No.”
“You didn’t know I’d agree.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I heard Higgins’s landlord talking in the saloon. Said he’d throw you out before the first snow.”
Martha’s fingers tightened around the pine rail.
“The whole town knew.”
“Yes.”
“The whole town watched.”
“Yes.”
“And you—”
Her voice failed.
She looked at the beds.
“You built these.”
Gideon looked almost embarrassed.
“I planned for the possibility.”
Martha turned away because her eyes had filled.
She had not cried when Thomas died.
Not at the funeral.
Not when the mine paid her eleven dollars and called it compensation.
Not when she sold her wedding china.
Not when Caleb quietly stopped asking for seconds.
But this—
Beds.
Someone had imagined her children sleeping safely.
The entire town had watched her family drown while a silent man in the mountains had been measuring pine boards.
Gideon spoke behind her.
“I didn’t build three beds, Martha.”
Her heart lurched.
She turned.
His hand rested on another door.
“I built four.”
Martha stared.
Gideon opened it.
Inside was a narrow room.
A single small bed stood against the wall.
Not hers.
His.
A bearskin lay folded at the foot. A rifle hung above it. One chest occupied the corner.
Martha looked from the room to him.
“I don’t understand.”
“The large bed is yours.”
“And this?”
“Mine.”
She stared.
“You proposed marriage.”
“Yes.”
“You expect me to sleep alone?”
“For as long as you want.”
Martha’s lips parted.
