Abigail smiled.
“Try again.”
Simon stood.
He was still enormous.
Still intimidating.
Still terrible with elegant words.
He removed his hat.
“Abigail.”
“Yes?”
“I have a cabin.”
She laughed.
Simon frowned.
“Let me finish.”
“Please.”
“It gets cold.”
“I noticed.”
“Roof leaks over the woodroom.”
“Romantic.”
“Coffee's bad.”
“Extremely.”
He looked at her.
“But every time I think about going back alone, I hate the thought.”
Her laughter disappeared.
Simon continued.
“I don't know what forever looks like.”
He swallowed.
“I know I want tomorrow with you.”
Abigail's eyes filled.
“And if tomorrow works, I'd like the one after.”
Closer.
“And every day after that until one of us runs out.”
She whispered, “Simon.”
“Marry me because you want the cabin.”
“I don't.”
He blinked.
She smiled.
“Your cabin is ugly.”
“Fair.”
“Marry me because I want you?”
His face softened.
“That works.”
She kissed him.
They married at Fort Brennan because Abigail liked Captain Webb and distrusted elaborate ceremonies.
Charles attended.
Simon wore a black coat borrowed from the captain.
It was too tight across the shoulders.
Abigail wore deep green.
Not white.
Never white.
When the officiant asked whether she took Simon Boone freely and willingly, Abigail laughed softly.
“What?” Simon whispered.
“Those are my favorite words.”
She answered clearly.
“I do.”
Simon did too.
They returned to the Bitterroot cabin.
The first night back, Abigail stood beside the bed.
Simon hovered near the door.
She looked at him.
“You are doing it again.”
“What?”
“Preparing to sleep on the floor.”
“Habit.”
“No.”
He stared.
Abigail pulled back the blanket.
“Share.”
His eyes darkened.
“Forever?”
She smiled.
“Start with tonight.”
Simon approached.
He stopped.
Abigail held out her hand.
He took it.
What followed belonged to them.
Not Josiah.
Not her father.
Not a contract.
Not even marriage.
Choice.
Again and again.
Simon never assumed.
Abigail never mistook his caution for lack of desire.
The relationship became passionate without becoming possessive.
Sometimes she initiated.
Sometimes he did.
Sometimes they talked until midnight and slept.
Sometimes they laughed.
Once Simon fell out of bed because Abigail stole too much blanket.
He blamed her.
She blamed architecture.
The next morning he built a wider bed.
That became one of Abigail's favorite marital stories.
Spring changed the mountain.
Snow retreated.
Miller's Creek ran hard with meltwater.
Abigail planted herbs near the cabin.
Simon claimed nothing would grow.
Half died.
Half survived.
She declared victory.
Simon trapped less.
He began raising more cattle.
Not because Abigail demanded it.
Because he liked being home.
She noticed.
“You're becoming domestic.”
“No.”
“You built shelves.”
“Necessary.”
“You bought curtains.”
“Your idea.”
“You selected blue.”
“Only cloth left.”
She smiled.
“Domestic.”
Simon walked away.
Abigail followed.
Their first serious disagreement came that summer.
Charles wrote asking Abigail to return to Helena for two months and help reorganize mine accounts.
She wanted to go.
Simon said no.
The word entered the room and changed everything.
Abigail's face went still.
Simon immediately knew.
“Wrong word.”
“Yes.”
“I'm worried.”
“That is different.”
“You'd be alone there.”
“I lived twenty-six years without you.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
Simon struggled.
“Sterling's trial isn't finished.”
“There are guards.”
“Men can be bought.”
“So I should never leave the mountain?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Simon paced.
Abigail waited.
Finally he said, “I don't know how to love somebody and not fear losing them.”
That ended the argument differently.
She approached.
“You tell me that.”
“Yes.”
“You ask me to be careful.”
“Yes.”
“You offer to come.”
“Yes.”
“You do not tell me no.”
Simon nodded.
“Right.”
Abigail touched his chest.
“Come with me.”
He did.
In Helena, Simon discovered administrative work was worse than blizzards.
He endured.
Abigail transformed the Prescott accounts.
She found outdated contracts.
Stopped waste.
Sold a decorative carriage her father had no business owning.
Charles protested.
Abigail ignored him.
Simon watched.
One evening he said:
“You're good at this.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
“You sound surprised.”
“I ain't.”
“You are.”
“Maybe a little.”
Abigail threw a pencil.
He laughed.
Their partnership became broader than romance.
Abigail understood finance.
Simon understood land.
She helped stabilize mine operations enough to sell a minority interest to responsible investors.
He expanded his ranch carefully.
They purchased fifty acres adjacent to the cabin.
Then another hundred.
Their lives connected mountain and town in ways neither expected.
A year after their wedding, Abigail became pregnant.
She knew before the doctor.
Simon did not.
She told him while he was repairing a fence.
“Simon.”
“Yes?”
“I need you to stop hammering.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm pregnant.”
The hammer missed the post entirely.
Simon stared.
“What?”
She smiled.
“Pregnant.”
He lowered the hammer.
“A baby?”
“No. A railroad.”
His eyes narrowed.
Abigail laughed.
Then Simon sat in the grass.
She stopped laughing.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
Concern.
She crouched.
“Simon.”
“What if something happens?”
Understanding.
His mother had died young.
He had seen winter deaths.
He had found Abigail nearly frozen.
Fear and love had always traveled together for him.
She took his hand.
“Something might.”
His face tightened.
“I hate that answer.”
“I know.”
“We do what we can.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And we do not ruin today by mourning tomorrow early.”
Simon looked at her.
“Where'd you learn that?”
“From nearly dying.”
He pulled her carefully into his arms.
Their daughter was born in late winter.
Anna Boone.
Simon held her and became useless.
Completely.
He stared at the tiny baby.