By March, the mountain began changing.
At first, the signs were small.
Icicles dripped in afternoon sunlight.
Patches of dark roof appeared beneath snow.
Water ran beneath the frozen creek.
The days stretched longer.
For months Adelaide had measured time by survival.
Now she measured it by how quickly spring approached.
And spring frightened her more than winter ever had.
The agreement had been clear.
Give me the winter.
If I become the burden you think I am, I’ll leave when the snow melts.
She had not become a burden.
Gidrick knew that.
She knew that.
But neither had spoken openly about what happened after winter.
Their growing affection made the silence more dangerous.
They kissed often now.
Sometimes while cooking.
Sometimes before Gidrick went to the barn.
Once in the pantry after he claimed he needed help finding salt, though both knew perfectly well where the salt was.
But Adelaide still slept in her cot.
Gidrick still slept in his bed.
He never pressured her.
That tenderness almost made the uncertainty worse.
One morning, Adelaide began organizing her trunk.
Gidrick entered.
He stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“Sorting.”
“For what?”
“Spring.”
His face changed.
Adelaide kept folding.
Gidrick stepped closer.
“You’re leaving?”
She looked up.
“That was the agreement.”
“Was.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Gidrick’s jaw tightened.
“Do you want to leave?”
The question was too direct.
Adelaide looked at the trunk.
“I don’t know what you want.”
“I asked what you want.”
She closed the lid.
“I want to know I’m here because I’m wanted.”
“You are.”
“As what?”
Gidrick stared at her.
Adelaide continued before courage left.
“Your housekeeper?”
“No.”
“Your nurse?”
“No.”
“The woman who happened to survive winter?”
“Addie.”
“Your actual wife?”
Gidrick’s answer did not come quickly enough.
Pain flashed across Adelaide’s face.
She turned away.
Gidrick caught her hand.
“Yes.”
She looked back.
“Yes what?”
“My wife.”
“On paper?”
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“In every way that matters.”
Adelaide’s heart pounded.
“Then why haven’t you said anything?”
“Because I thought you knew.”
She laughed in disbelief.
“Men.”
Gidrick frowned.
“What?”
“You nearly died in a blizzard and somehow that still wasn’t enough to teach you to use words.”
He almost smiled.
Adelaide pulled her hand free.
“I need more than hints.”
“All right.”
Gidrick straightened.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
Adelaide remained silent.
“I want you here next spring.”
He stepped closer.
“Next winter.”
Another step.
“The one after that.”
Her throat tightened.
“I want your jars taking up half my shelves.”
Adelaide smiled through tears.
“I want you ordering me around whenever I get hurt.”
“That seems likely.”
“I want your bread.”
“That seems less romantic.”
“I want your laugh.”
She became still.
Gidrick’s voice softened.
“I want you.”
The same words he had used their first night returned to Adelaide.
Back then:
I don’t want you.
Now their opposite carried the weight of every day between.
Gidrick touched her cheek.
“I want the woman who stepped off that train.”
Adelaide swallowed.
“All of her?”
“All of her.”
He kissed her.
This time, there was no hesitation.
When they separated, Adelaide whispered, “You made me sleep by the stove.”
“I was an idiot.”
“You were.”
“I can move my bed beside the stove if that helps.”
She laughed.
“Maybe for one night.”
“I probably deserve a week.”
“Possibly.”
Gidrick smiled.
Then his expression became serious.
“I love you.”
Adelaide stared at him.
He did not look away.
“I should’ve said that first.”
Her eyes filled.
“You should have.”
“I love you, Adelaide Cole.”
She pressed her forehead against his chest.
For several seconds, she could not speak.
Then she whispered, “I love you too.”
The mountain did not suddenly become easier because they admitted it.
There were still chores.
Broken fences.
Sick animals.
Late snow.
One storm in March destroyed part of the wood shed.
But now the hardship belonged to both of them.
When Adelaide became sick with a winter cough, Gidrick nearly panicked.
It began mildly.
One sneeze.
Then coughing.
By evening he had checked her forehead six times.
“Gidrick.”
“What?”
“Stop touching me.”
“You’re warm.”
“I’m sitting beside a stove.”
“You coughed.”
“I have a cold.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You said fever can begin—”
Adelaide caught his face between both hands.
“Look at me.”
He did.
“I’m not Abigail.”
His eyes closed.
“I know.”
“You can take care of me without expecting me to die.”
He opened them.
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“And for the record, I have treated hundreds of colds.”
“What do you need?”
“Tea.”
He was already moving.
“Blanket.”
He grabbed one.
“Quiet.”
Gidrick stopped.
Adelaide laughed.
“That one might be hardest for you.”
He gave her an offended look.
She recovered in three days.
Gidrick slept in a chair nearby anyway.
By April, they could reach town again.
Their return caused immediate interest.
The last time Harland Ridge had seen Adelaide, she had arrived humiliated and uncertain.
Now she entered town beside Gidrick with her head high.
People noticed.
They also noticed the way Gidrick’s hand rested at the small of her back.
At the general store, Mrs. Callahan smiled.
“Well.”
Adelaide smiled back.
“Well what?”
“Nothing.”
Mrs. Callahan looked at Gidrick.
“Mr. Cole seems healthier.”
“He is.”
“Winter treat you kindly?”
Adelaide glanced at Gidrick.
“Eventually.”
Gidrick cleared his throat.
The station clerk recognized them.
He grinned.
“Still married, then?”
Gidrick looked at Adelaide.
“Very.”
Adelaide’s cheeks warmed.
They purchased supplies.
Then Gidrick led her toward the small church.
Adelaide frowned.
“Why are we here?”
“You’ll see.”
Inside stood Reverend Pierce.
On a table were spring flowers.
Not many.
Wild crocuses.
Pine branches.
A few early mountain blooms.
Adelaide stared.
Gidrick removed his hat.
“Our first wedding wasn’t much.”
She looked at him.
He continued.
“I thought maybe we could have another.”
Her breath caught.
“A second wedding?”
“Same marriage.”
His voice softened.
“Different promise.”
Reverend Pierce smiled.
“You are already legally married, of course.”
“I know,” Gidrick said.
“This is simply a renewal.”
Adelaide’s eyes filled.
Gidrick stepped closer.
“The first time I married you because I thought appearances required it.”
Her throat tightened.
“This time I want to stand in front of God and say I choose you.”
She smiled through tears.
“I’m wearing work boots.”
“I like your boots.”
“My dress has chicken feed on it.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
Adelaide laughed.
Then nodded.
“All right.”
Gidrick took her hands.
There were no crowds.
No expensive flowers.
No music.
Only Reverend Pierce, Mrs. Callahan as witness, a few wildflowers, and the man who once refused to sign the registry.
This time, Gidrick spoke first.
“I promise to never again judge your strength by what I think strength should look like.”
Adelaide laughed softly.
Gidrick smiled.
“I promise to defend you when someone speaks cruelly.”
His expression sobered.
“Even when that someone is me.”
Adelaide squeezed his hands.
“I promise to remember that loving you does not mean living in fear of losing you.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“And I promise to spend every season grateful that you gave me one winter to become less of a fool.”
When it was Adelaide’s turn, she inhaled.
“I promise to remind you when you’re being a fool.”
Everyone laughed.
Adelaide continued.
“I promise to honor the woman you loved before me without ever pretending I am her.”
Gidrick’s eyes shone.
“I promise to build a home with you that has room for grief, joy, mistakes, forgiveness, and hopefully fewer falling trees.”
Gidrick laughed.
“And I promise that when you forget your medicine, I will force it down your throat.”
“That part sounds familiar.”
She smiled.
“Most of all, I promise to stay because I choose you too.”
They kissed.
Outside, snowmelt dripped from the church roof.
Winter was ending.
But their life together had only begun.
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