Morning began before sunrise at Rook Ranch.
Rosalie awoke to the sound of wood splitting outside.
For a confused moment she forgot where she was.
Then she saw the unfamiliar cedar walls, her mother’s wedding dress hanging from a peg, and Gideon’s coat folded carefully across a chair.
Marriage.
The word felt strange.
She dressed and entered the kitchen.
A note rested on the table.
Coffee is hot. Eggs are in the pantry. I will be at the south barn.
Rosalie traced Gideon’s handwriting.
Strong strokes.
Plain words.
No command.
No expectation.
She had spent years being ordered around.
Cook this.
Wash that.
Bring Merrick food.
Tell the creditor Father isn’t home.
Gideon’s note simply provided information.
Rosalie found herself smiling.
Only slightly.
She immediately stopped.
It felt too early for smiling.
She prepared breakfast anyway.
When Gideon returned, snow covered his shoulders.
He stopped when he saw two plates on the table.
Rosalie pointed.
“Sit.”
He understood the gesture.
Gideon removed his coat and sat.
They ate quietly.
Then Rosalie pushed the notebook toward him.
Do you always work before sunrise?
He wrote:
Animals do not own clocks.
She laughed.
Gideon looked up.
He could not hear her laughter.
But he saw it.
Something changed in his expression.
For one fleeting second, he smiled.
It transformed him.
The frightening deaf rancher of Coldwater vanished.
In his place sat a tired man with kind eyes.
Their life settled into a rhythm.
Gideon rose early.
Rosalie cooked.
He worked cattle, repaired fences, chopped timber, and maintained the barn.
She cleaned, baked, mended clothes, and slowly made the house less like a solitary man’s cabin.
Their notebook filled quickly.
Need anything from town?
Thread.
What color?
Blue.
Dark blue?
Any blue.
Sometimes Gideon drew pictures when words failed.
A crooked drawing of a cow escaping through a broken fence made Rosalie laugh so hard she had to sit down.
Gideon watched her with amused confusion until she added horns to his drawing.
He shook his head.
One afternoon Rosalie discovered a shelf filled with old books.
She pulled out a weathered copy of Shakespeare.
Gideon noticed.
His pencil moved.
My mother taught me.
Rosalie wrote:
To read?
Everything she could.
Then:
After I lost most of my hearing, books became easier than people.
Rosalie understood that more than he probably realized.
Books did not whisper behind your back.
Books did not stare.
Books did not decide you were strange because you experienced the world differently.
She began learning his signs.
Gideon had developed a rough system of gestures with ranch workers.
Two fingers toward the eyes meant look.
A flat hand downward meant wait.
A fist against the chest meant me.
A pointing finger followed by a question in his eyes could mean almost anything.
Rosalie added signs of her own.
Food.
Cold.
Coffee.
Horse.
Stubborn.
That last one she used frequently.
Gideon eventually invented one for her.
He touched two fingers to his temple, then pointed toward Rosalie.
Smart.
She pretended not to like it.
Secretly, she did.
Still, something troubled her.
His right ear.
Sometimes Gideon stopped in the middle of work and pressed his palm against it.
At dinner, he occasionally winced.
When the fire burned extremely hot, he shifted farther away.
His pillow continued collecting small stains.
One morning Rosalie found a cloth streaked with blood hidden beneath the washbasin.
She confronted him that evening.
Your ear is bleeding.
Gideon read the notebook.
His face closed.
It happens.
Rosalie frowned.
Bleeding should not happen.
He shrugged.
She wrote:
Doctor?
Gideon’s pencil stopped.
Then:
No.
Why?
His answer came slowly.
Doctors already told me.
Told you what?
Nothing can be done.
Rosalie studied him.
He reached for the notebook, but she pulled it back.
When?
Years ago.
How many years?
Gideon frowned.
She waited.
Finally:
Since childhood.
Rosalie looked toward his scar.
He noticed.
His hand rose to cover the area behind his ear.
She pointed to the scar.
He shook his head.
Conversation over.
Rosalie allowed it.
For then.
Their eighth night came with a storm.
Wind swept down from the ridge after sunset.
Snow struck the windows sideways.
Gideon returned late from securing the barn doors.
He ate little.
Rosalie noticed sweat on his forehead.
“You’re sick.”
He could not hear the words, but he recognized concern.
He shook his head.
Then he stood.
The room seemed to tilt beneath him.
Gideon grabbed the table.
Rosalie rose.
Before she reached him, his knees buckled.
He crashed against the chair.
“Gideon!”
He folded forward, both hands gripping his head.
Rosalie ran around the table.
His face had gone pale.
She touched his forehead.
Hot.
Too hot.
His right ear was red and swollen.
Gideon shoved her hand away instinctively.
Not violently.
Protectively.
He grabbed the notebook.
His fingers shook.
Happens often.
Rosalie stared.
Often?
He had lived with this?
Alone?
She wrote:
How long does it last?
Sometimes hours.
What helps?
Nothing.
The pain suddenly intensified.
Gideon’s pencil fell.
His body tightened.
Rosalie knelt.
She had watched her mother care for injuries, fevers, infections, livestock wounds, and almost every ordinary disaster frontier life could produce.
Margaret Ashford had never claimed to be a physician.
But she had taught her daughter one lesson above all.
Look carefully.
Pain tells you something.
Rosalie fetched clean cloth and cool water.
She held the cloth against the side of Gideon’s neck.
For nearly an hour she stayed beside him.
Gradually the attack faded.
Gideon finally fell asleep sitting against the wall.
Rosalie remained awake.
She watched his breathing.
Then she looked at his ear.
Something about it bothered her.
Not merely swelling.
There was a dark discoloration deep inside.
But the room was too dim.
Three days passed.
Gideon avoided discussing the episode.
Rosalie did not forget.
She watched him.
She noticed he sometimes tilted his head as if responding to a sensation rather than sound.
She noticed the rusty stains appeared after severe pain.
She noticed a foul metallic smell occasionally clung to the cloth he used against his ear.
And then, during supper on the third night, Gideon suddenly froze.
His spoon dropped.
The chair slammed backward.
He clutched his right ear.
Rosalie immediately understood.
Another attack.
Worse.
Far worse.
Gideon staggered toward the hearth.
His shoulder hit the mantel.
Rosalie caught his arm.
His skin burned beneath her fingers.
She guided him toward the table.
Then she grabbed the oil lamp.
“Look at me.”
Gideon could not hear.
Rosalie pointed toward his ear.
He shook his head violently.
She ignored him.
She raised the lamp.
The outer ear was swollen crimson.
A small line of blood ran downward.
Rosalie leaned closer.
At first she saw only darkness.
Then something changed.
Deep within the canal, something reflected the lamplight.
Black.
Wet.
Rosalie’s breath stopped.
The thing moved.
Not with Gideon.
Independently.
She nearly dropped the lamp.
Gideon saw her expression.
Fear entered his eyes.
Rosalie set the lamp down.
She hurried toward the kitchen stove.
Water.
Pot.
Alcohol.
Clean cloth.
Porcelain bowl.
Then she opened her sewing basket.
Tweezers.
When Gideon saw them, he seized her wrist.
His eyes widened.
He grabbed the notebook.
One word appeared beneath his shaking pencil.
Dangerous.
Rosalie took the pencil.
More dangerous if it stays.
He shook his head.
Rosalie wrote:
Do you trust me?
Gideon stared at her.
Outside, wind screamed around the cabin.
Inside, the fire snapped.
Rosalie waited.
Slowly, Gideon released her wrist.
Then he nodded.
Rosalie washed the tweezers with boiled water and alcohol.
Her hands trembled.
She forced them still.
Gideon sat sideways at the table.
His fingers wrapped around the edge.
Rosalie positioned the lamp.
“Stay still.”
He could not hear her.
Perhaps she was saying it for herself.
She leaned closer.
The black thing moved again.
Her stomach twisted.
Rosalie inserted the tweezers carefully.
Gideon’s entire body stiffened.
Metal touched something firm.
She closed the tips.
Pulled.
Nothing.
Gideon’s knuckles whitened.
Rosalie released her grip.
Adjusted.
Tried again.
This time the object moved.
Gideon slammed his fist against the table.
Rosalie almost stopped.
Then she saw more of it.
Long.
Dark.
Slick.
She pulled steadily.
Suddenly resistance vanished.
Rosalie stumbled backward.
Something dropped into the porcelain bowl.
Click.
For several seconds neither moved.
Rosalie stared.
Gideon watched her face because he could not hear what had fallen.
Slowly they both looked down.
Inside the bowl lay a thin black object several inches long.
At first Rosalie thought it was a piece of leather.
Then one end curled.
The thing moved.
Rosalie covered her mouth.
Gideon stood so quickly the chair overturned.
His eyes fixed on the bowl.
The object twisted again.
Alive.
Gideon’s face drained of color.
Rosalie stepped closer to him.
He touched his ear.
Blood covered his fingertips.
Then something extraordinary happened.
Gideon froze.
His eyes widened.
He turned toward the fire.
Then toward the window.
Then toward Rosalie.
His lips parted.
“What…”
The word came roughly.
Rosalie stared.
Gideon lifted one finger.
He was listening.
Not clearly.
Not normally.
But listening.
He whispered again.
“What… is that?”
Rosalie’s heart hammered.
“You heard me?”
Gideon looked terrified.
She struck the table lightly with the spoon.
His head jerked toward the sound.
Rosalie struck it again.
Gideon stared at the spoon.
Then at her.
For nearly thirty years, Coldwater had believed Gideon Rook’s silence came from one childhood accident.
But as Rosalie looked from her husband to the black living thing twisting inside the porcelain bowl, she realized everyone might have been wrong.
And if they had been wrong about Gideon’s deafness, she wondered what else they had been wrong about.