“Eliza said the house needed hers.”
Mara stood beside him.
“And mine?”
He looked down at her.
“The house needs yours too.”
She kissed him.
Mercy Hollow continued gossiping.
Of course.
People said Mara ruled Wolfjaw Mountain.
People said Abel finally found someone louder than avalanches.
People said she had tamed him.
Mara hated that one.
“Tamed?”
She said when Lucy repeated it.
“Abel was never wild.”
Abel, sitting outside the mercantile, raised an eyebrow.
Mara continued:
“He was sad.”
Lucy looked toward him.
Abel nodded.
“Accurate.”
People said Abel tamed Mara too.
That made him laugh.
One evening he told her.
Mara stared.
“Tamed me?”
“Apparently.”
“What did you say?”
“I told them I value my life.”
“Good husband.”
He kissed her forehead.
Summer brought work.
Hard work.
Fence repair.
Calving.
Harvest preparation.
Mara proved steady exactly as Abel had requested.
Not quiet.
Never quiet.
Steady.
She woke before dawn.
Worked until hands blistered.
Learned cattle.
Learned the mountain trails.
Learned which horse lied about being tired.
Learned weather signs.
Abel learned that Mara sang while kneading bread.
Badly.
Eliza had competition.
He learned she hated thunderstorms but refused to admit it.
He learned she could shoot.
Poorly at first.
Then frighteningly well.
He learned she kept money hidden in three locations because poverty had taught her never to trust one purse.
He learned she cried during births.
Animal or human.
He learned she loved children but never spoke about having them.
That worried him.
One evening they sat on the porch.
Mara mending a shirt.
Abel sharpening a tool.
He asked:
“Do you want children?”
Her needle stopped.
She looked up.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Mara's face softened.
“How many?”
“Two.”
She smiled.
“Still?”
“Four is negotiable.”
Mara laughed.
Then looked down.
Abel waited.
She said:
“I don't know if I can.”
His expression changed.
“Why?”
“I was sick at nineteen.”
“Doctor said it might be difficult.”
“Might.”
“Yes.”
Abel put down the tool.
Mara continued quickly:
“I should have told you before marrying.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“No?”
“No.”
“You didn't deceive me.”
“But your advertisement…”
“Asked for a wife.”
“Not breeding stock.”
Mara's eyes filled.
Abel moved closer.
“Children would be a gift.”
“But you're not a condition.”
She swallowed.
“What if you never have them?”
“Then I have you.”
The answer came too easily.
Mara stared.
Abel smiled slightly.
“Besides, I have three hundred cattle behaving like stupid children.”
She laughed through tears.
“You romantic giant.”
“Best I can do.”
She kissed him.
Autumn brought the first real test.
A storm rolled over Wolfjaw earlier than expected.
Snow in October.
Heavy.
Fast.
Abel had cattle in the upper pasture.
He saddled before dawn.
Mara came outside wearing boots and coat.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“You're staying.”
She stared.
“That wasn't a question.”
“Trail is dangerous.”
“I know.”
“You've never ridden it in snow.”
“Then I learn.”
“Mara.”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
“I said stay here.”
The yard went still.
Mara's eyes changed.
Abel immediately knew he had made a mistake.
She walked closer.
“Say that again.”
He exhaled.
“Trail is dangerous.”
“Not that part.”
“I don't want…”
“No.”
She pointed.
“You said I said.”
Abel removed his hat.
Rubbed his forehead.
“Mara.”
“You do not command me because you're frightened.”
His jaw tightened.
“I lost Eliza in a storm.”
“I know.”
“I am not Eliza.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then act like it.”
Abel looked toward the mountain.
Snow thickened.
Mara softened.
“Abel.”
He looked at her.
“I understand what this weather does inside your head.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“But locking me inside the house will not fix seven years ago.”
“I can't…”
He stopped.
Mara waited.
“I can't ride up there thinking you're behind me.”
“Because?”
“Because if something happens…”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“You'll blame yourself.”
“Yes.”
Mara stepped close.
“Then that is what we work on.”
His eyes opened.
“You don't protect me by making me smaller.”
Silence.
“I am your wife.”
“Partner.”
“You wrote the word yourself.”
Abel looked ashamed.
“Steady.”
“Yes.”
Mara mounted her horse.
“Now be steady.”
He stared.
Then laughed despite everything.
“Wild woman.”
“Move.”
They rode together.
The upper trail was brutal.
Wind.
Snow.
Visibility fading.
Mara nearly turned back twice.
Pride kept her silent the first time.
Sense made her speak the second.
“Abel.”
He looked.
“This is getting bad.”
Relief crossed his face.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she said it.
“Agreed.”
“We turn?”
“We turn.”
No heroics.
No proving.
They turned.
That decision saved them.
An hour later the upper pass disappeared beneath a slide.
Had they continued, they might have been trapped.
Back at the ranch, Mara stood inside the barn shaking from cold.
Abel wrapped blankets around her.
“You were right.”
She looked up.
“About?”
“Trail.”
Mara smiled.
“Say it again.”
“No.”
“Abel.”
“You were right.”
“Beautiful.”
He glared.
Mara continued:
“And you were right to worry.”
He stopped.
She touched his chest.
“Both can be true.”
His expression softened.
“That sentence annoys me.”
“Good.”
He kissed her.
Winter settled deep.
They spent long evenings together.
Cards.
Books.
Repairs.
Arguments.
Kisses.
Abel began sleeping without waking from the storm dream every night.
Then every other night.
Then sometimes a week.
Mara knew healing not because grief vanished.
Because it stopped arriving on schedule.
One February morning Mara became sick.
Not seriously.
At first.
Nausea.
Fatigue.
Abel worried.
She blamed bad meat.
Then missed a monthly cycle.
Then another.
Mara stood in the kitchen staring at a calendar.
Abel entered carrying wood.
Stopped when he saw her face.
“What?”
She looked at him.
“I think…”
He waited.
Mara sat.
Abel dropped the wood.
“Are you sick?”
“I don't know.”
“What hurts?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what?”
She laughed suddenly.
Tears came.
Abel looked terrified.
“Mara.”
She held up one hand.
“I think I’m with child.”
Silence.
Absolute.
Abel's face emptied.
Mara's joy faded slightly.
“Abel?”
He sat opposite.
Hands shaking.
Not happiness.
Fear.
Mara understood immediately.
“Eliza.”
He closed his eyes.
She moved beside him.
“Look at me.”
He did.
“We are not seven years ago.”
His breathing grew heavy.
“Doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Today.”
“Mercy Hollow is six hours.”