Zeke became quiet.
Their eyes held.
Heat rose into Judith’s cheeks.
She looked back at the bowl.
He did the same.
Something had entered the cabin that neither knew how to discuss.
Not love.
That would have been absurd.
Attraction?
Perhaps.
Curiosity definitely.
Judith had expected marriage to Zeke to feel like survival.
A roof.
Food.
A way to remain near the country she knew.
She had not expected to be aware of his mouth.
Or his hands.
Or the way the rolled sleeves of his shirt exposed thick muscular forearms.
This was inconvenient.
After supper Judith washed the bowls.
Zeke protested.
She ignored him.
He dried them.
That surprised her.
“Men don't usually do dishes in my settlement.”
“Men in your settlement have wives.”
“So?”
“I've lived alone.”
“If I didn't wash dishes, I ate from dirty ones.”
Judith nodded.
“Excellent reasoning.”
“I’m known for it.”
“You told me this afternoon I would birth three sons by spring.”
Zeke froze.
Judith had been waiting.
She placed a bowl on the shelf.
“Would you like to explain that excellent reasoning?”
His ears actually reddened.
She nearly smiled.
He set down the cloth.
“I shouldn't have said that.”
“No.”
“I was angry.”
“With me?”
“No.”
“With them.”
“The elders.”
“Yes.”
Judith turned.
Zeke’s face hardened.
“They stood there talking about you like you were an extra sack of grain.”
“I heard.”
“I know.”
“And you decided announcing my immediate production of three children would improve matters?”
“No.”
He rubbed his beard.
“It sounded better in my head.”
Judith laughed.
“There is no possible version where three sons by spring sounds reasonable.”
“Twins?”
“Three sons.”
“Triplets.”
“Zeke.”
“Fine.”
His shoulders lowered.
“I was trying to say…”
He stopped.
Judith waited.
“That a house with you in it wouldn't feel empty.”
Her laughter disappeared.
Zeke looked toward the stove.
“I’ve lived alone a long time.”
“Twenty years.”
“Near enough.”
“You were twenty.”
“Twenty-one.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
Judith recognized avoidance.
She let it pass.
For now.
Zeke continued.
“I've thought about family.”
“Not often.”
“That's a lie.”
“Fine.”
“Often.”
His eyes lifted to hers.
“When I saw them telling you there wasn't room at their table…”
His jaw tightened.
“I thought I have a table.”
“One chair.”
Judith reminded him.
He smiled faintly.
“Had.”
He looked at the stool.
“Now two seats.”
Something inside her hurt beautifully.
Zeke took one step closer.
Then another.
Judith did not move.
He stopped a respectful distance away.
“I wanted children.”
He said it simply.
The fear Judith had carried all day came alive.
There it was.
The secret.
The reason she should have refused him at the fence.
The reason she had nearly told him before the ceremony.
Nearly.
Coward.
She looked down.
Zeke noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Judith.”
His voice was soft.
She hated that softness.
Hardness would have been easier.
“I need to tell you something.”
His expression changed.
He waited.
Judith could hear the stove.
Wind.
Her own breathing.
She turned away.
“Years ago…”
Her hands tightened around her apron.
“I became ill.”
“How ill?”
“Fever.”
“I was seventeen.”
“For almost three weeks.”
“A doctor came from Helena.”
Zeke remained silent.
Judith continued.
“I don't remember much.”
“My mother told me later.”
“The doctor said there had been inflammation.”
“Inside me.”
Her throat tightened.
“He said…”
She stopped.
Zeke moved slightly.
Not touching.
Waiting.
Judith whispered:
“He said I might never carry a child.”
Silence.
There it was.
The truth.
She stared at the wall.
Zeke said nothing.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Every old voice returned.
Too big.
Burden.
Unmarried.
Consumes resources.
Cannot produce children.
What use is she then?
Judith’s stomach turned.
She forced herself to look at him.
Zeke’s face had gone still.
Not disgusted.
Not angry.
Stunned.
That was almost worse.
“I should have told you.”
She said it quickly.
“Before the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
Zeke looked toward the floor.
Judith’s heart sank.
“Say something.”
He lifted his eyes.
“You were seventeen?”
She blinked.
“Yes.”
“One doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone examine you afterward?”
“No.”
“Did he say impossible?”
Judith paused.
“No.”
“What exactly?”
“My mother said he told her it would be difficult.”
“That future pregnancies might fail.”
“But she interpreted it as…”
Judith swallowed.
“Maybe never.”
Zeke nodded slowly.
Then he stepped toward her.
Judith instinctively moved backward.
He stopped immediately.
That hurt.
She hated that her body had reacted before thought.
“I’m sorry.”
Zeke said.
“What?”
“For moving too close.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop.”
His voice was firmer.
Judith froze.
“Stop apologizing for existing in my house.”
Our house.
He had said our house earlier.
Now my house.
The difference stabbed her.
Perhaps he heard it too.
He corrected:
“Our house.”
Judith looked down.
Zeke rubbed his face.
“I’m thinking.”
“I can see.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“I lied.”
“You didn't lie.”
“I withheld something.”
“Yes.”
“That matters.”
“Yes.”
His honesty surprised her.
Zeke continued.