She tried again.
The second kiss was harder.
Her body reacted before her mind could command it.
Muscles tightened.
Breathing shortened.
When Gideon shifted closer, pain flashed through her.
“It hurts.”
The words escaped.
Everything stopped.
Lydia immediately regretted saying them.
She knew what came next.
Anger.
Men hated interruption.
Men hated refusal.
Men hated being made to feel rejected.
She pressed both palms against Gideon's chest.
“Please.”
Her voice shook.
“We can try again later tonight.”
Gideon stared.
Then stepped backward.
Immediately.
Lydia froze.
He moved three full steps away.
His hands stayed at his sides.
“Later?”
She nodded quickly.
“If you want.”
His expression changed.
“What do you think I want?”
Lydia's stomach dropped.
She pulled the buffalo robe around herself.
“I’m your wife.”
“I noticed.”
“You paid my fare.”
“Yes.”
“You gave me a home.”
“Yes.”
“Then there are expectations.”
Gideon's jaw tightened.
Lydia braced herself.
But when he spoke, the anger was not directed at her.
“Who taught you that?”
She stared.
“What?”
“That if I buy a railway ticket, you owe me pain.”
Her face burned.
“That is marriage.”
“No.”
“Mr. Crowley said—”
“I don't care what Crowley said.”
“He arranged the match.”
“He did not write our marriage.”
Lydia pulled the robe higher.
Gideon crouched.
Not near enough to touch.
Lower than her now.
His huge body folded until he was looking up at her instead of down.
“Listen carefully.”
She did.
“I married you because I wanted a wife.”
His voice remained rough.
“I did not purchase one.”
Lydia swallowed.
“There is a difference?”
“Yes.”
The simplicity stunned her.
Gideon reached toward the loose edge of the buffalo robe.
Stopped.
“Can I?”
Lydia looked at his hand.
Then nodded.
He pulled the robe securely around her shoulders.
Nothing more.
When he began to move away, Lydia caught his wrist.
Gideon stopped.
Her fingers trembled around him.
“I don't want you to leave.”
His eyes changed.
“Then I won't.”
“But I don't want—”
“I know.”
He sat on the floor beside the bed.
Lydia stared.
“What are you doing?”
“Staying.”
“On the floor?”
“Yes.”
“You have a bed.”
“You're using it.”
“This is your room.”
“Tonight it's yours.”
Lydia looked at him.
“You're strange.”
“I've been told worse.”
For nearly an hour, they talked.
Not about intimacy.
About Philadelphia.
About Idaho.
About how Gideon learned carpentry.
About Lydia's factory.
She did not mention Briggs.
Not yet.
Eventually her breathing slowed.
She lay beneath the buffalo robes.
Gideon remained beside the hearth.
When she woke before dawn, he was still there.
Asleep sitting upright against the wall.
That image stayed with Lydia.
Not because it was romantic.
Because it was evidence.
For the first time, a man had been given an opportunity to take something from her and simply chosen not to.
That choice mattered.
The next morning Gideon behaved normally.
Perhaps too normally.
He made coffee.
Burned bacon.
Asked whether she wanted to learn to milk the red cow.
Lydia wanted him to mention the night.
He did not.
By afternoon she became irritated.
Finally, while cleaning the kitchen, she snapped:
“Are we simply never going to discuss it?”
Gideon looked up from sharpening a knife.
“Discuss what?”
“You know what.”
He waited.
Lydia's face heated.
“Last night.”
His expression softened.
“What do you want to say?”
She glared.
“That is infuriating.”
“Why?”
“Because you keep making me choose.”
“Yes.”
She stopped.
Gideon put down the knife.
“Is that unusual?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
Lydia opened her mouth.
No answer came.
Gideon looked back at the blade.
“I can make more decisions if you want.”
“Like what?”
“Coffee tomorrow.”
“That coffee is not a decision. It is an attack.”
He smiled.
Lydia hated how quickly she had begun recognizing the expression beneath his beard.
Over the next two weeks, the cabin changed.
Not visibly.
Lydia changed.
She stopped asking permission before moving furniture.
She reorganized the pantry.
Gideon objected only because he could no longer find salt.
She repaired three shirts.
Balanced his account ledger.
Then discovered the accounts were a disaster.
“What is this?”
Gideon looked over her shoulder.
“Ledger.”
“No. This is arithmetic committed during a head injury.”
“I can add.”
“Apparently not.”
“You've been here two weeks and already insulting my education.”
“You wrote twenty-eight as eighty-two.”
“That happened once.”
“Four times.”
Gideon stared at the page.
“Maybe you should handle accounts.”
“I already am.”
He smiled.
Another rule Lydia had assumed vanished.
A husband should control money.
Gideon seemed delighted not to.
At the end of January, he rode to settlement and returned with a small wooden box.
He placed it beside Lydia's plate.
She looked suspicious.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Inside were pencils.
Good ones.
A ruler.
Two ledger books.
Ink.
Lydia touched the paper.
“You bought these for me?”
“You complained about mine.”
“I said your ledger was a crime.”
“Same thing.”
She tried not to smile.
Failed.
“Thank you.”
Gideon nodded.
That evening she kissed him.
Not because she owed him.
Because she wanted to.
The realization startled her enough that she pulled back.
Gideon immediately stopped.
Lydia laughed.
“What?”
“You.”
“What did I do?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“Because you stop every time I stop.”
His brow furrowed.
“Yes.”
“As if that's normal.”
“It is.”
She looked at him.
“No, Gideon.”
Her smile faded.
“It isn't where I come from.”
He became still.
“Tell me.”
Lydia almost refused.
Then remembered the floor beside the hearth.
So she told him about Alton Briggs.
Not everything.
Enough.
The factory floor.
The whispers.
The hand on her wrist.
The women who lost jobs.
The warning.
Gideon listened without interruption.
His face became harder with every sentence.
When she finished, he stood.
Lydia flinched.
He saw it.
Immediately his expression changed.
“I'm not angry at you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She looked down.
“No.”
Gideon paced once across the room.
“What was his full name?”
“Alton Briggs.”
“Where?”
“Fenwick & Mercer Textiles. Kensington district.”
Gideon memorized it.
Lydia knew he had.
“Do not go east and murder him.”
“That was not my plan.”
“You had a plan?”
“I have thoughts.”