Gideon removed his coat.
Underneath he wore a rough brown shirt stretched across his shoulders.
“We'll go to preacher after winter.”
Martha stared.
“After winter?”
“Road closes soon.”
“You sent for a bride knowing the road was about to close?”
“Yes.”
“You're either very confident or very stupid.”
Gideon turned toward the door.
“Wood’s out back.”
Martha blinked.
“What?”
“Fire's dead.”
He pointed toward the stove.
“Split wood.”
Then toward a bucket.
“Water’s quarter mile downhill.”
“I’m checking traps.”
He walked out.
Martha stood alone.
The door slammed.
Silence.
She looked at the dead stove.
Then the woodpile visible through the window.
Then the floor.
Then the bed.
A laugh escaped her.
Not amusement.
Disbelief.
“Seven women,” she whispered.
She suddenly respected all seven.
Martha sat.
Her legs trembled violently.
She wanted to sleep.
She wanted to eat.
She wanted to cry.
The last desire made her angry.
So she stood.
Outside, the splitting axe weighed nearly twelve pounds.
Martha wrapped both hands around the hickory handle.
Lifted.
Heavy.
Good.
She placed a pine round on the stump.
Raised the axe.
Brought it down.
Thwack.
The blade buried halfway.
Martha grunted.
Wrenched it free.
Again.
Crack.
The log split.
She smiled.
Another.
Then another.
She was slow.
But Martha had an advantage thin people had spent her entire life pretending was only a defect.
Weight.
When she committed her body to the swing, the axe arrived with authority.
Within forty minutes, wood covered the ground.
Martha’s shoulders screamed.
Her palms reopened.
She continued.
Pine first.
Then oak.
Oak resisted.
She adjusted her stance.
Wider.
Used her hips.
The blade struck.
Crack.
The round split.
When Gideon returned after dark, smoke curled from the chimney.
He stopped.
Warm light glowed through the cabin window.
Inside, Martha stood at the stove.
Her dress sleeves rolled.
Apron stained.
Hair escaping the kerchief.
A cast-iron skillet from her trunk hissed with salt pork.
Biscuits browned inside a Dutch oven.
Gideon entered.
Martha did not look up.
“Close the door.”
He did.
His eyes moved toward the stacked wood.
Then the stove.
Then Martha.
“You split oak.”
She flipped pork.
“Pine burns too fast.”
Gideon said nothing.
Martha pointed toward the table.
“Sit.”
He obeyed before realizing he had obeyed.
Martha placed a plate before him.
Salt pork.
Beans.
Biscuits.
Not delicate.
Not pretty.
Food designed to make a body survive.
Gideon ate one bite.
Paused.
Martha noticed.
“Bad?”
“No.”
“Then chew.”
He ate everything.
Then another plate.
Martha finally sat.
She was too exhausted to eat much.
Gideon looked at her scraped palms.
“You should wrap those.”
“You should split your wood before asking women to climb your mountain.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Martha saw it.
Interesting.
The next morning, Gideon woke before dawn.
He expected Martha asleep.
She was already kneading biscuit dough.
“How long you been awake?”
She shrugged.
“Your roof leaks.”
“It didn't rain.”
“Condensation.”
He stared.
She continued:
“And the west window lets in enough air to preserve meat.”
“It’s fine.”
“It is not.”
“You complain plenty.”
Martha stopped kneading.
Slowly turned.
“You misunderstand something.”
Gideon looked back.
“I don't complain because I can't survive your cabin.”
“I complain because you apparently have eyes and still choose to live like an abandoned bear.”
He grunted.
Martha pointed a dough-covered finger.
“That noise again.”
Then she returned to work.
Gideon left.
Day two became water.
The creek lay down an icy slope.
Martha carried two wooden buckets.
Filled both.
The climb back nearly destroyed her.
Halfway up, one boot slid.
She landed on her hip so hard she saw white.
Water spilled.
Not all.
She lay there breathing.
Then crawled upright.
Refilled what she lost.
Continued.
Gideon watched from above.
Again, no hand.
Again, the test.
Martha reached him.
Set both buckets down.
Then said:
“If you watch me fall one more time without offering a hand, I’m going to use one of these buckets to introduce you to the creek.”
Gideon stared.
“You wanted help?”
“No.”
“Then why would I offer?”
Martha paused.
That answer irritated her because it contained logic.
She picked up the buckets.
“You're still an ass.”
“Been called worse.”
“I’m sure.”
Day three was the root cellar.
Rotten potatoes.
Mold.
Spiders.
Martha emerged six hours later covered in dirt.
Gideon inspected it.
“You missed a corner.”
She looked at him.
Then at the cellar.
Then back.
“Point.”
He did.
Martha took his wrist.
Placed the scrub brush in his hand.
“Finish it.”
Gideon looked at the brush.
Then her.
“You're the woman.”
Martha’s expression became dangerous.
“And you have two hands.”
“I don't scrub.”
“You do now.”
For several seconds neither moved.
Then Gideon entered the cellar.
Martha smiled.
Progress.
By day four, something strange had happened.
The cabin changed.
Not completely.
But enough.
Martha washed the windows.
Rearranged the pantry.
Hung drying herbs.
Scrubbed the table.
Boiled the worst of Gideon’s shirts.
Discovered three mouse nests.
Declared war.
Gideon returned one afternoon to find his bed furs outside.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving your skin.”
“They're fine.”
“They have fleas.”
“They don't bother me.”
“Then the fleas can marry you.”
She beat the hides with a stick.
Gideon watched her body move beneath the blue dress.
He had been trying not to.
He failed more frequently each day.
Martha was unlike any woman who had climbed his trail.
The first bride had been nineteen.
Beautiful.
Terrified of bears.
She cried the first night.
The second refused to touch raw meat.
The third expected a servant.
The fourth lasted six days but hated isolation.
The fifth injured her ankle and begged to leave.
The sixth wanted Gideon to sell the cabin and move to Helena.
The seventh said mountain life was barbaric.
Gideon did not hate them.
He simply knew none belonged there.
Martha was different.
She suffered.
Obviously.
Her breathing grew harsh on climbs.
Her face flushed.
She sweated.
She moved slower than Gideon.
But she never pretended difficulty meant impossibility.
And she possessed something Gideon had not expected.
Force.
Not only physical.
Presence.
When Martha entered a room, it became occupied.
When she disagreed, the disagreement existed.
When she cooked, the food had weight.
When she laughed, it filled the cabin.
Gideon found himself listening for the sound.
That worried him.
The fourth night brought the storm.