The morning after Adelaide found Abigail’s grave, something between her and Gidrick changed.
It was not forgiveness.
Forgiveness required more than one apology buried beneath snowfall.
It was not affection.
Adelaide refused to mistake understanding for tenderness.
But she stopped trying to impress him.
That was the difference.
For weeks, nearly everything she had done had carried an invisible question.
Was that enough?
Did she haul enough water?
Chop enough wood?
Cook well enough?
Walk far enough?
Work hard enough?
Was she finally strong enough for Gidrick Cole to admit that Finch had not cheated him?
After seeing Abigail’s grave, Adelaide stopped asking.
She woke because chores needed doing.
She cooked because they needed food.
She worked because surviving winter required work.
Whether Gidrick approved no longer mattered.
Strangely, that was when Gidrick began watching her differently.
The following afternoon, Adelaide carried a crate of preserved vegetables into the pantry.
Gidrick intercepted her.
“I’ve got it.”
“So do I.”
“You don’t have to carry everything yourself.”
Adelaide kept walking.
“You told me the opposite a month ago.”
“I was wrong.”
She stopped.
It was the first time he had said the words directly.
Gidrick looked uncomfortable.
“I misjudged you.”
Adelaide set the crate down.
“Because I’m fat.”
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He looked toward the floor.
Adelaide continued.
“I know what people see when they look at me.”
“Not everybody.”
“Enough.”
Gidrick rubbed the back of his neck.
“I thought—”
“That I was soft.”
“Yes.”
“Weak.”
“Yes.”
“A burden.”
His silence answered.
Adelaide nodded.
“At least you’re honest.”
“I’m not proud of it.”
“That doesn’t make it disappear.”
“I know.”
She picked up the crate.
Gidrick reached for it again.
Adelaide gave him a warning look.
He lifted both hands.
“All right.”
Something almost like a smile tugged at her mouth.
Almost.
That evening, Gidrick noticed the trunk was open.
He crouched beside it while Adelaide stirred stew.
“What is all this?”
“Medicine.”
He picked up a jar.
“Willow bark?”
“You know it?”
“Abigail used it for headaches.”
Adelaide crossed the room and took the jar gently.
“My uncle ran an apothecary.”
Gidrick looked at her.
“You worked there?”
“Since I was tall enough to see over the counter.”
“What did you do?”
“Everything.”
She began returning jars to their places.
“I learned herbs. Poultices. Tinctures. Basic wound care. Midwifery assistance. Fever treatment.”
Gidrick stared at the contents again.
“You brought an entire medicine cabinet.”
“I brought the things I couldn’t replace.”
“You could have told me.”
Adelaide raised one eyebrow.
“You could have asked what was in the trunk before deciding I packed dresses.”
Gidrick had the decency to look embarrassed.
“I deserved that.”
“Yes.”
A few days later, Gidrick cut his forearm repairing a hinge.
He entered the cabin with blood soaking through his sleeve.
Adelaide saw it.
“Sit.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Sit.”
He obeyed.
She cleaned the wound with boiled water and alcohol.
Gidrick watched her hands.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Hundreds of times.”
“On people?”
“Mostly.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“What else?”
“Horses. Dogs. Once a goose.”
“A goose?”
“Meanest patient I ever had.”
Gidrick laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
Adelaide looked up.
For a moment, their eyes met.
There it was again.
Something warmer than tolerance.
Then Gidrick looked away.
“Will I survive?”
“The goose did.”
“Comforting.”
Adelaide wrapped his arm.
“You’ll live.”
Neither knew how prophetic the words would become.
Winter deepened.
December arrived beneath another heavy storm.
The mountain disappeared for three days.
Adelaide spent evenings reading from her uncle’s notebook.
Gidrick repaired traps or sharpened tools.
Sometimes they talked.
He told her where he had grown up.
Wyoming.
Oldest of four brothers.
Left home at nineteen.
Came to Montana for logging work.
Eventually bought land.
Built the cabin himself.
Adelaide told him about Missouri.
Her uncle Samuel.
The apothecary.
Her mother’s baking.
The summer floods.
The county fair.
She did not tell him how many marriage proposals she had never received.
Or how many dances she had watched from chairs against walls.
She did not need pity.
Gidrick, meanwhile, began doing small things.
Her boots appeared beside the stove every evening, dried before morning.
A hook appeared beside her cot for her coat.
He repaired the cracked handle on her hairbrush.
When she carried water, he cleared ice from the trail.
He never announced these things.
Adelaide never thanked him aloud.
But she noticed.
One evening, she asked, “What was Abigail like?”
Gidrick went still.
“You don’t have to answer.”
He stared into the fire.
“She talked a lot.”
Adelaide smiled faintly.
“That sounds terrible.”
He glanced at her.
“She talked when she was nervous. Talked when she was happy. Talked when she was angry.”
“What about when she was tired?”
“Especially then.”
Adelaide laughed.
Gidrick smiled.
“She hated mice.”
“Reasonable.”
“She once climbed onto the table because she saw one.”
“Still reasonable.”
“She stayed there twenty minutes.”
“Completely justified.”
Gidrick’s smile faded slowly.
“She wanted children.”
Adelaide said nothing.
“We were trying.”
The fire cracked.
“When she got sick, she thought she might be pregnant.”
Adelaide’s heart tightened.
“Was she?”
“I never knew.”
Silence followed.
Then Adelaide said quietly, “Loving someone again wouldn’t erase her.”
Gidrick’s face closed.
“I didn’t say I wanted to love anyone.”
“No.”
She turned a page in the apothecary book.
“You didn’t.”
The next morning, the barometer fell sharply.
Adelaide noticed because her uncle had taught her to watch weather changes through pressure and animal behavior.
The chickens refused to leave their coop.
The mule stamped constantly.
The sky had a yellow-gray quality she disliked.
Gidrick came inside before noon.
“Storm coming.”
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
“Tonight?”
“Maybe sooner.”
They spent the next several hours preparing.
Gidrick secured shutters.
Adelaide brought extra wood inside.
They filled every water container.
Fed the livestock heavily.
Moved tools.
Checked the barn roof.
By late afternoon, the wind began.
It struck the cabin in sudden bursts.
Then grew into a continuous roar.
Snow covered the windows.
By nightfall, the world outside had vanished.
Adelaide stood beside the stove.
“How long?”
Gidrick listened to the wind.
“Could be two days.”
It lasted longer.
The first day, they managed easily.
The second day, drifting snow reached halfway up the cabin door.
The third morning, a deep cracking sound came from outside.
Gidrick rose immediately.
Adelaide looked up.
“What was that?”
“Barn.”
He pulled on his coat.
“Gidrick.”
“If the roof collapses, we lose the animals.”
“You can’t see anything.”
“I know the rope line.”
He tied a heavy rope around his waist.
One end remained fixed to an iron hook beside the cabin door.
Adelaide grabbed his arm.
“Don’t go.”
He looked at her.
“I have to.”
“The animals aren’t worth dying for.”
“They’re worth keeping alive.”
“So are you.”
The words stopped him.
Adelaide’s hand remained on his sleeve.
Wind screamed around the cabin.
Gidrick’s expression softened for half a second.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“You better be.”
He opened the door.
Snow exploded inside.
Then he disappeared into white.
Adelaide shut the door.
She watched the rope.
For the first few minutes, it moved.
Then stopped.
Ten minutes passed.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Adelaide opened the door and shouted.
“Gidrick!”
The wind swallowed her voice.
She pulled the rope.
It was slack.
Her blood ran cold.
“Gidrick!”
Nothing.
Adelaide did not hesitate again.
She put on her heaviest coat.
Wrapped wool around her face.
Tied another rope around her waist.
Then stepped into the storm.
The cold hit like a wall.
Snow blinded her instantly.
She followed the rope line by touch.
One step.
Then another.
Then another.
Wind shoved her sideways.
She fell.
Got up.
Fell again.
The barn appeared as a darker shape in the white.
One side of the roof had partially collapsed.
Adelaide saw no sign of Gidrick.
She shouted again.
Nothing.
Then she saw a boot.
It protruded from beneath the branches of a fallen pine.
“Oh God.”
Adelaide dropped to her knees.
“Gidrick!”
His face was nearly buried in snow.
A heavy branch lay across his shoulder.
Blood darkened the side of his head.
Adelaide clawed snow away from his mouth.
He was breathing.
Barely.
“Gidrick, wake up.”
Nothing.
She tried moving the branch.
It would not lift.
Adelaide shifted position.
Used her legs.
Pushed.
Her muscles screamed.
The branch moved an inch.
“Come on.”
She pushed again.
Two inches.
Enough.
Adelaide dragged Gidrick free.
He weighed close to two hundred pounds.
Maybe more with wet clothing.
She could not lift him.
So she tied the rope beneath his arms.
Then pulled.
The first foot nearly broke her.
Snow reached her thighs.
Wind drove ice into her face.
Adelaide leaned forward and pulled again.
“Come on.”
Another foot.
Then another.
Her hands burned.
Her back screamed.
Twice she slipped.
Once Gidrick’s body began sliding downhill.
Adelaide threw herself across the rope and stopped him.
“I am not losing you,” she shouted into the storm.
She did not know whether she meant to the mountain or to Abigail’s ghost.
She pulled again.
By the time the cabin appeared, Adelaide was sobbing from exhaustion.
She got Gidrick through the door.
Collapsed beside him.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Adelaide forced herself upright.
She stripped away his wet coat.
His shirt.
His boots.
His skin was dangerously cold.
She wrapped him in blankets.
Warmed stones near the stove.
Placed them around him.
Checked his head.
A deep cut.
No skull depression she could feel.
His breathing improved slightly.
Adelaide sat beside him all night.
Near dawn, Gidrick began shivering violently.
At first, Adelaide was relieved.
Then she touched his forehead.
Heat.
Too much heat.
“No.”
His eyes remained closed.
By sunrise, his fever climbed.
Adelaide opened the medicine trunk.
The mountain had tested her strength.
Now it was going to test everything else she knew.
And Gidrick Cole’s life depended on whether she had remembered enough.
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