“Stubborn woman.”
Martha sat up.
“Move over.”
Gideon did.
She climbed into the bed wearing her shift.
Then immediately rolled as far away as possible.
The mattress dipped beneath her weight.
Gideon remained on his side.
Warmth spread under the furs.
Martha sighed involuntarily.
Gideon whispered:
“Better?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then:
“You take up a lot of bed.”
Martha turned.
“Would you like me to leave?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
They stared at each other in the darkness.
Gideon’s face was close.
Martha could smell pine smoke on his beard.
His eyes moved toward her mouth.
Her breathing changed.
Gideon noticed.
Martha whispered:
“Don't start something you're too stubborn to finish.”
His gaze sharpened.
“What makes you think I won't finish?”
Heat moved through her.
She swallowed.
Gideon’s hand shifted beneath the blanket.
Stopped near her waist.
He did not touch.
Asked without asking.
Martha closed the distance herself.
Her mouth met his.
The kiss was not gentle.
Not at first.
Weeks of anger entered it.
Martha grabbed his beard.
Gideon made a sound low in his throat.
His arm wrapped around her waist.
Pulled her closer.
Martha felt the entire length of his body against hers.
She gasped into his mouth.
Gideon stopped.
Immediately.
Forehead against hers.
“Too much?”
Martha’s eyes opened.
She smiled.
“That was me breathing loud.”
For half a second Gideon stared.
Then laughed against her mouth.
Martha kissed him again.
Harder.
The storm outside disappeared.
Eventually they separated.
Not because desire faded.
Because Martha placed one hand against his chest.
“Not yet.”
Gideon’s breathing was rough.
He nodded.
No argument.
That mattered more than Martha expected.
She settled beside him.
His hand rested carefully at her waist.
Martha whispered:
“You're surprisingly trainable.”
Gideon grunted.
She smiled.
“There it is.”
Winter arrived eight days later.
Real winter.
Snow fell for thirty hours.
The mountain vanished.
The trail disappeared.
Gideon estimated five feet at the ridge.
Martha stood in the doorway staring.
“We're trapped.”
“Until spring, mostly.”
She turned.
“You sound pleased.”
Gideon looked at her body beneath the heavy wool dress.
“Maybe.”
Martha’s cheeks warmed.
“Behave.”
“I am.”
“You're looking.”
“Yes.”
She closed the door.
The weeks that followed remade both of them.
Martha learned mountain life.
Not perfectly.
She burned venison.
Misread tracks.
Nearly chopped off a boot toe.
Got lost once within half a mile of the cabin and returned furious.
Gideon never mocked her.
Not anymore.
He taught.
In return, Martha taught Gideon civilization.
Bathing more than occasionally.
Table manners.
How to mend socks rather than wearing holes until toes emerged.
That flour had to be stored properly.
That saying thank you did not reduce male strength.
He resisted the last one longest.
Martha won.
Their attraction became impossible to ignore.
Sometimes Gideon stood behind her while she cooked, hand at her waist, beard against her neck.
Sometimes Martha deliberately bent to retrieve firewood simply because she knew he watched.
One evening Gideon caught her doing it.
“You're trouble.”
Martha straightened.
“What?”
“You know exactly what you're doing.”
She smiled.
“And?”
He stepped closer.
Martha backed into the table.
Gideon’s hands settled at her hips.
Strong.
Careful.
“You told me a woman your size might be more than I can handle.”
Martha’s cheeks flushed.
“You remember that?”
“I remember most things you say when you're threatening me.”
She laughed.
Gideon leaned close.
“What happens if I decide to find out?”
Martha wrapped both arms around his neck.
“Then you'd better lock the door.”
The fire snapped.
Outside, snow moved across the windows.
Gideon kissed her.
This time Martha did not stop him.
The night belonged only to them.
No tests.
No audience.
No need to prove anything.
By morning, Martha woke against his chest.
Furs tangled around them.
Gideon’s hand rested over her stomach.
She remained still.
For years Martha had avoided mirrors when changing clothes.
Avoided men seeing too much.
Her first serious suitor in Missouri had once told her privately that she would be pretty if she lost forty pounds.
Another said he liked large women but would not want his friends to know.
Her own brother Henry had told her she should accept whichever widower asked because women her size did not receive choices.
Gideon stirred.
Martha stiffened instinctively.
His eyes opened.
“Morning.”
She pulled the furs higher.
Gideon noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He looked at her.
Martha avoided his eyes.
Gideon sat slightly upright.
“What?”
She sighed.
“This is the part where you discover daylight.”
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Men sometimes enjoy things at night that embarrass them by breakfast.”
His face hardened.
“Someone told you that?”
Martha said nothing.
Gideon understood.
He pulled the fur gently from her grip.
Martha resisted.
“Gideon.”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Don't—”
“I’m looking at my woman.”
The words silenced her.
Gideon’s gaze moved over her face.
Shoulders.
Body beneath the furs.
Then back to her eyes.
No disgust.
No joke.
No hesitation.
He leaned down.
Kissed her shoulder.
Then her cheek.
Then her mouth.
“You're not something I hide.”
Martha’s eyes filled.
She hated that.
Gideon saw.
“Don't cry.”
“Say that again and I’ll break your nose.”
He smiled.
“There she is.”
Spring arrived late.
By April, the trail reopened.
Ridgeville had spent five months expecting Martha Bell to return.
Every stagecoach driver asked.
Every trapper descending the ridge brought gossip.
“Blackwood still got the big woman?”
“She alive?”
“He send her off?”
Nobody knew much.
Then on the first clear Saturday in May, Gideon and Martha walked into Ridgeville together.
The mercantile porch went silent.
Martha wore a deep-blue dress.
New.
Fitted carefully to her body.
Cream apron removed.
Hair braided and pinned.
Gideon walked beside her.
Not ahead.
Beside.
That detail was noticed first.
Then the ring.
Simple silver band on Martha’s left hand.
The mercantile owner, Walter Pike, stepped outside.
“Well, I'll be damned.”
Martha smiled.
“Probably.”
Gideon carried two bundles of pelts.
Martha carried nothing except a basket.
One of the men who had laughed at her arrival stared.
“You lasted.”
Martha looked at Gideon.
Gideon looked at her.
Then Martha smiled.
“No.”
The man frowned.
“What?”
“I stayed.”
Different thing.
Inside the mercantile, townspeople gathered around.
Questions.
Too many.
Martha ignored most.
Then a woman named Clara Hayes approached.
She had known several of Gideon’s previous brides.
Clara looked toward him.
“You finally found one tough enough?”
Gideon answered:
“No.”
Martha raised an eyebrow.
Clara looked confused.
Gideon continued:
“She found one trainable enough.”
The store erupted in laughter.
Martha slapped his arm.
Not hard.