His jaw tightened.
“Mara.”
“What?”
“That garden…”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
His voice sharpened.
First time.
Mara removed her hand.
“Then tell me.”
Silence.
Abel looked toward the barn.
His eyes changed.
“Tonight.”
She stared.
“You said that yesterday.”
“I know.”
“Do you intend to postpone your entire life by twenty-four hours at a time?”
His face hardened.
Mara immediately regretted it.
Not the question.
The cruelty.
Abel picked up the bucket.
Walked away.
Mara watched him.
“Damn.”
She had always been proud of speaking plainly.
Plain was not the same as careless.
That evening Abel ate quietly.
Mara let him.
After supper, she washed dishes.
He dried.
Neither spoke for several minutes.
Then Mara said:
“That was unkind.”
Abel stopped drying a plate.
She continued:
“I meant the question.”
“But I said it like your grief was laziness.”
He looked at her.
“I’m sorry.”
Abel put down the towel.
“You apologize fast.”
“Only when wrong.”
“How often is that?”
“Rare enough to remain memorable.”
His mouth twitched.
Mara leaned against the counter.
“You don't have to tell me anything tonight.”
Abel stared toward the dark window.
Then said:
“Eliza died because of me.”
Mara did not move.
Abel sat.
She sat opposite.
He looked at his hands.
“Winter storm.”
“Seven years ago.”
“She was pregnant.”
Mara's chest tightened.
“Eight months.”
“The baby?”
“Died too.”
His voice stayed flat.
That was worse than tears.
Mara waited.
Abel continued.
“Doctor told us she shouldn't travel late in pregnancy.”
“But Eliza's sister got sick in Mercy Hollow.”
“Pneumonia.”
“Eliza wanted to go.”
“I told her no.”
“She went anyway?”
Abel shook his head.
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“She cried.”
“Said her sister might die.”
“I hitched the wagon.”
The room became very still.
“Storm started on the lower pass.”
“I should've turned back.”
“Didn't.”
“Thought I could beat it.”
“Mountain closed behind us.”
“Horse went down.”
“Wagon overturned.”
“Eliza was hurt.”
Mara felt her throat tighten.
Abel continued.
“I carried her three miles to an old trapper cabin.”
“No doctor.”
“No firewood.”
“Baby came early.”
He stopped.
Mara's hand moved across the table.
Stopped halfway.
Permission.
Abel looked at it.
Then covered it with his.
His hand dwarfed hers.
“She died before sunrise.”
Mara whispered:
“Abel.”
He shook his head.
“I made the decision.”
“She wanted to go.”
“I should've said no.”
“You said no first.”
“I changed it.”
“Because she asked.”
“Because I thought I was strong enough to control the mountain.”
His voice cracked.
There.
The wound.
Not merely grief.
Pride turned inward.
Punishment.
“I thought being strong meant I could solve whatever happened.”
Mara squeezed his hand.
“No one can control weather.”
“I could've controlled the wagon.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know we were on the pass because of me.”
“And because she chose to go.”
Abel looked up sharply.
“Don't blame her.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what?”
Mara leaned forward.
“I am refusing to let you steal all the responsibility because you think guilt belongs to the strongest person in the room.”
He stared.
Her voice softened.
“Eliza was a grown woman.”
“She loved her sister.”
“She chose.”
“You chose.”
“The storm chose nothing because storms are not moral creatures.”
“What happened was terrible.”
“But tragedy is not always a crime someone must confess to.”
Abel looked away.
Mara continued:
“You have been sentencing yourself for seven years.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don't know that.”
“I saw her chair.”
Silence.
“The garden.”
“The bedroom you refuse to enter.”
“Seven-year-old preserves.”
His eyes closed.
Mara stood.
Walked around the table.
Stopped beside him.
“You loved her.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop turning her memory into a prison.”
Abel looked up.
Anger flashed.
“You think you can arrive yesterday and tell me how to grieve?”
“No.”
Mara's voice stayed steady.
“I think I can tell you how I refuse to live.”
He froze.
“If you want Eliza's chair to stay there, keep it.”
“If you want her name beside the door, I'll polish the carving myself.”
“If you want her garden preserved exactly as she left it, I won't touch a weed.”
“But if you expect me to become another ghost in this house because loving me might remind you what losing someone feels like, I will leave.”
Abel stood.
Too fast.
His size filled the room.
Mara's heart jumped.
She did not move.
He stared down.
“You think I don't know that?”
His voice was rough.
“You think I haven't spent every hour since you arrived trying not to want you here?”
Mara stopped breathing.
Abel continued:
“You talk.”
“You argue.”
“You move things.”
“You laugh at me.”
“You fill every room before you even enter it.”
“You make this house sound alive.”
His chest rose heavily.
“And I hate how much I like it.”
Mara's anger vanished.
Abel looked almost furious with himself.
“I asked for steady because I thought steady meant safe.”
“Then you stepped off the train covered in another man's blood.”
Mara almost smiled.
“Not covered.”
“Enough.”
“You told a stationmaster his opinion was survivable.”
“He deserved it.”
“You argued with my horses.”
“They pull left.”
“And every time you look at me…”
He stopped.
Mara stepped closer.
“What?”
Abel's eyes fell to her mouth.
Again.
“Every time you look at me, I remember I am still alive.”
The sentence broke her.
Not visibly.
Inside.
Mara reached up.
Touched his beard.
Abel went completely still.
Her fingers brushed his cheek.
“Then maybe being alive is the problem we should deal with.”
His hand closed gently around her wrist.
Not stopping.
Holding.
“Mara.”
“Yes?”
“If I kiss you…”
She smiled.
“That would be an excellent improvement over talking.”
Abel laughed once.
Then kissed her.
Carefully.
Too carefully.
His mouth barely touched hers.
Mara pulled back.
He immediately released her.
“Did I…”
She grabbed his shirt.
“Abel Stone.”
He stared.
“If you're going to kiss me, kiss me.”
Something changed in his face.
Then he did.
His hand came around her waist.
The other rested at the back of her neck.
Mara rose onto her toes.
The kiss deepened.
Not rushed.
Not polite.
Seven years of restraint meeting twenty-eight years of refusing to apologize for wanting more.
Mara pressed against him.
Abel made a rough sound low in his throat.
She smiled against his mouth.
“Steady?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He kissed her again.
When they finally separated, Mara's face was flushed.
Abel rested his forehead against hers.
“We're not married.”
“I remember.”
“I should stop.”
“Probably.”
Neither moved.
Mara smiled.
“Are you going to?”
Abel looked at her.
“No.”
She laughed softly.
Then kissed him once more.
Shorter.
Gentler.
Afterward she stepped away.
“That is enough.”
Abel looked stunned.
“You started it.”
“I know.”
“And now you're stopping.”
“Yes.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Wild woman.”
He smiled.
“Go to bed, Mara.”
She walked toward the stairs.
At the first step, she turned.
“Your room tomorrow.”
His smile disappeared.
Mara added gently:
“Not for us.”
“For you.”
Abel understood.
She went upstairs.
The next morning Mara found Abel standing outside the closed bedroom.
He had not entered.
She stood beside him.
No jokes.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He looked at her.
“Good?”
“If you were ready, it wouldn't matter.”
She opened the door.
Dust.
Heavy curtains.
Large bed.
Eliza's brush remained on the dresser.