His shirt sleeves were rolled despite freezing air.
His broad back flexed with each swing.
Judith stared.
This was becoming a problem.
The axe struck.
Zeke looked up.
Caught her watching.
Judith immediately pretended the trees were fascinating.
He grinned.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“You hungry?”
“Yes.”
“I made oats.”
Her face fell.
Zeke laughed.
“That bad?”
“Your stew has damaged trust.”
He set down the axe.
“I can follow directions.”
“That remains unproven.”
Judith cooked breakfast.
Zeke ate three bowls.
She ate one and a half.
Halfway through, she stopped.
Old habit.
Her spoon rested.
Zeke noticed.
“Done?”
“I should be.”
“Should?”
Judith looked down.
“I ate enough.”
He stared at her bowl.
Then hers.
Then his.
“You ate half what I did.”
“You're enormous.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
She did not answer.
Zeke’s face changed.
“Did they ration food to you?”
“No.”
“Judith.”
“No.”
She rubbed her hands.
“Not directly.”
His jaw tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means people noticed.”
“People always notice what I eat.”
“Why?”
She stared at him.
He understood.
Her body.
Zeke leaned back.
“You hungry?”
Judith hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Then eat.”
“It isn't that simple.”
“Why?”
“Because I hear them.”
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
She laughed bitterly.
“A woman my size reaches for a second biscuit and half the room remembers it.”
Zeke looked angry now.
Not at her.
“Here.”
He pointed around the cabin.
“Who is the room?”
Judith stared.
“You.”
“Exactly.”
“Do I care?”
“I don't know.”
“I’ll tell you.”
He pushed the pot toward her.
“I don't care.”
Judith’s eyes stung.
Zeke continued:
“You worked yesterday.”
“Rode six hours.”
“Climbed half a mountain.”
“You're hungry.”
“Eat.”
It was such a small thing.
A bowl of oats.
Judith had to look away.
She took more.
Zeke returned to his meal.
No praise.
No watching.
No making the moment larger.
That kindness nearly broke her.
Their first winter together began with practical negotiations.
Judith reorganized the food stores.
Zeke discovered he had apparently been preserving onions incorrectly for two decades.
He disputed this.
Then three rotten onions proved otherwise.
Judith won.
Zeke built another chair.
A real one.
Not a stool.
Judith stitched cushions.
He laughed at the cushions.
Then complained when she removed his.
Judith learned the trail to the spring.
Zeke learned she could shoot reasonably well.
He improved her aim without touching her until she asked him to adjust her stance.
When he finally placed his hands at her hips, neither of them remembered shooting for several minutes.
Their marriage became physical slowly.
Affection first.
Kisses beside the stove.
Zeke’s hand at her waist while she cooked.
Judith resting her cheek against his shoulder in the evenings.
They slept in the same bed after the third night.
At first only sleeping.
The bed was narrow.
Zeke apologized.
Judith said:
“You built it for one mountain man.”
“I did.”
“Then perhaps the mountain man should sleep on the floor.”
He stared.
“You are cruel.”
“I've been told.”
They bought no larger bed until spring.
They did not always need one.
Their intimacy remained tender and adult, passionate without becoming explicit. Judith discovered that Zeke loved her body not despite its softness and fullness but as part of the woman he had wanted from the beginning.
The first time she undressed completely before him, she almost turned away.
Old voices.
Old shame.
Her hands moved instinctively to cover herself.
Zeke stopped her gently.
“Judith.”
She looked at him.
“Don't.”
Her face fell.
He realized.
“No.”
“I mean don't hide.”
She swallowed.
“You don't have to say things because I’m your wife.”
“I know.”
“You can be disappointed.”
His expression hardened.
“Who taught you that a man looking at you should mean judgment?”
Judith almost laughed.
“Everyone.”
Zeke crossed the small space.
His hands settled respectfully at her waist.
“I am looking because you're beautiful.”
Her throat tightened.
“You don't have to believe me tonight.”
“I have years.”
Judith stared.
“Years?”
“I married you.”
“Planning on keeping you.”
The certainty in his voice changed everything.
She kissed him before fear could answer.
By January, the community below had begun gossiping about their marriage.
One trader brought supplies and returned with stories.
Ezekiel had become soft.
Judith controlled him.
Judith cooked too well and the mountain man was growing fat.
That last claim was absurd.
Zeke had somehow become more muscular after two months of winter woodcutting.
Judith considered this deeply unfair.
Then Bishop Staltzfus arrived.
He rode up with Elder Miller during a clear afternoon.
Judith saw them through the window.
Her stomach tightened instantly.
Zeke noticed.
“You want them here?”
“It’s cold.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Judith took a breath.
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
He opened the door.
The bishop entered first.
His eyes moved around the cabin.
Two chairs.
Judith’s sewing basket.
Blue curtains.
A second cup.
Her presence everywhere.
He looked almost unsettled.
“Sister Judith.”
“Bishop.”
“You look well.”
“I am.”
His gaze shifted toward Zeke.
“Brother Thorne.”
“I’m not your brother.”
Judith closed her eyes.
“Zeke.”
“What?”
“Try.”
“I am trying.”
Bishop Staltzfus cleared his throat.
“We came because certain matters need discussion.”
Zeke sat beside Judith.
Not in front of her.
Beside.
“What matters?”
The bishop looked at Judith.
“There are concerns.”
“About?”
“Your separation from the community.”
Judith folded her hands.
“You sent me away.”
“We arranged another place.”
“You told me I consumed resources.”
Elder Miller shifted.
Bishop Staltzfus looked uncomfortable.
“That language may have been unfortunate.”
“It was accurate to your thinking.”
Silence.
Zeke’s jaw tightened.
Judith touched his wrist beneath the table.
Stay.
He did.
The bishop continued:
“There is also concern that your marriage was rushed.”
Judith almost laughed.
“You gave me two weeks to find a husband.”
“Yes, but—”
“And I found one.”