“I don't care.”
“Snow.”
“I don't care.”
“Abel.”
He stood.
“We go.”
Mara grabbed his hand.
“No.”
His face hardened.
“We need a doctor.”
“Yes.”
“But not today.”
“Mara.”
“Look outside.”
Snow.
Heavy.
Same kind of weather.
His fear had erased reason.
Mara squeezed his hand.
“We wait for the road.”
He stared.
“You could be…”
“I am not ill.”
“How do you know?”
“I don't.”
“Then…”
Mara stood.
“Steady.”
The word stopped him.
She touched his face.
“Be steady.”
His eyes filled.
“I can't lose you.”
“You don't have me by preventing loss.”
“You have me now.”
She placed his hand against her stomach.
Nothing to feel.
Too early.
Still.
Abel looked down.
Then his whole body seemed to fold inward.
He knelt in front of her.
Forehead against her.
Mara held his head.
For the first time since she knew him, Abel cried without hiding.
Not loud.
Deep.
Years of fear.
Mara stroked his hair.
“I’m here.”
He whispered:
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don't apologize.”
“I should be happy.”
“You can be both.”
He laughed through tears.
“That sentence again.”
“Yes.”
“Both.”
Fear and joy.
Past and future.
Eliza and Mara.
Loss and possibility.
Both.
The doctor confirmed pregnancy two weeks later.
Healthy so far.
Mara's previous illness might create difficulty.
Might not.
The doctor recommended monitoring.
No unnecessary winter travel.
Abel listened so intensely the doctor eventually said:
“Mr. Stone, your wife is pregnant, not made of spun glass.”
Mara laughed.
Abel did not.
For months he struggled.
He wanted Mara to rest constantly.
She refused.
They compromised.
No upper trails alone.
No lifting grain sacks.
No climbing barn roof.
Mara protested the roof rule.
Abel threatened to remove the ladder.
She threatened to find another.
Marriage.
Spring came.
Mara's belly grew.
So did Abel's fear.
But he did not let fear become command.
When he slipped, Mara reminded him.
“Steady.”
He would exhale.
Try again.
That mattered more than perfection.
By midsummer, she could no longer see her own boots.
Abel tied them.
Mara hated it.
Then secretly loved it.
At night he placed one enormous hand over her stomach.
The baby kicked.
Abel froze every time.
“Again.”
“You can't order the child.”
“I’m asking.”
“Sounds like ordering.”
Another kick.
Abel smiled.
That smile became Mara's favorite thing.
Labor began during rain.
Of course.
Not a mountain blizzard.
But enough to send terror through Abel.
Mara woke before dawn.
Pain.
Then water.
She looked at him.
“Abel.”
He sat upright.
“What?”
“It’s time.”
The giant turned white.
Mara almost laughed.
“Don't faint.”
“I don't faint.”
“Excellent.”
He stood.
Immediately hit his shoulder on the bedpost.
Mara laughed despite another contraction.
“You're useless.”
“I know.”
They had prepared.
Midwife Ruth Harper was staying at the ranch for the final week.
Abel ran downstairs.
Nearly broke the bedroom door opening it.
Ruth came up.
Took control.
Hours passed.
Mara cursed every man involved in childbirth.
Including Abel.
He accepted this calmly.
At one point she grabbed his shirt.
“You did this.”
“Yes.”
“If I survive, I’m killing you.”
“Fair.”
Ruth laughed.
“Save your strength.”
Mara glared at both.
Night came.
Labor continued.
Abel's fear returned with every hour.
But he stayed.
Not controlling.
Not fleeing.
Holding her hand.
Giving water.
Following instructions.
Steady.
Near midnight, the baby arrived.
A girl.
Healthy.
Loud.
Very loud.
Ruth placed her against Mara.
Mara cried.
Abel stared.
Did not move.
Mara looked up.
“Come here.”
He stepped closer.
Slowly.
As if approaching something sacred.
Mara shifted the blanket.
“Your daughter.”
Abel's face broke.
He touched one tiny hand with one finger.
The baby grabbed him.
Mara laughed softly.
“Caught.”
Abel began crying.
Again.
He no longer seemed embarrassed by it.
“What do we call her?”
Mara asked.
They had argued about names for months.
Nothing agreed.
Abel looked toward the child.
Then at Mara.
“Eliza?”
Mara froze.
Not offended.
Moved.
“Are you sure?”
He swallowed.
“Middle name.”
Mara smiled.
“Yes.”
“First?”
Abel looked at her.
“You choose.”
Mara thought.
Then smiled.
“Hope.”
Abel's eyes closed briefly.
Hope Eliza Stone.
Mara kissed the baby's forehead.
“Perfect.”
Years passed.
Not quickly while living them.
Quickly in memory.
Hope grew into a loud child.
Naturally.
Abel blamed Mara.
Mara blamed heredity from some unknown Stone ancestor.
Two years later came Samuel.
Then no more.
Two children.
Exactly Abel's original number.
Mara called it suspicious.
The garden thrived.
The ranch expanded.
Mercy Hollow stopped calling Abel the giant of Wolfjaw as if he were some creature.
He became simply Abel.
Mara helped with that.
She brought people to the ranch.
Neighbors.
Travelers.
Children.
Christmas dinners.
Summer work crews.
Noise.
Life.
The chair by the window eventually moved.
Not discarded.
Moved.
Eliza's quilt remained.
Hope slept under it when she was sick one winter.
Mara thought Abel might object.
He did not.
He stood at the door watching his daughter sleep beneath his first wife's quilt.
Then looked at Mara.
“Feels right.”
She took his hand.
“Yes.”
The carving beside the door remained.
ELIZA
MARA
Years later Abel carved:
HOPE
SAMUEL
A house adding names.
Not replacing them.
On their twentieth anniversary, Mara and Abel rode a wagon down to Mercy Hollow.
Same road.
Much improved.
Still dangerous.
They stopped at the overlook.
Mara was forty-eight now.
Curvier.
Silver beginning at her temples.
Abel fifty-nine.
Gray beard.
Still enormous.
Slower getting off the wagon.
Mara teased him mercilessly.
They sat together on the bench.
Mountain wind moving around them.
Mara looked toward him.
“You remember?”
“Yes.”
“You nearly kissed me here.”
“You nearly fell off the wagon.”
“Details.”
“You grabbed me.”
“You enjoyed it.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Honest old man.”
Abel took her hand.
“Best decision I ever made.”
“What?”
“Answering your letter.”
Mara leaned against him.
“You wanted a steady wife.”
“Yes.”
“You got a wild one.”
He smiled.
“Both.”
She groaned.
“My sentence.”
“I stole it.”
“Thief.”
He kissed her forehead.
Mara looked across the peaks.
“You know what I think?”
“Dangerous beginning.”
“I think that newspaper mistake saved us.”