Chapter 2 - Three Hundred Dollars in Gold
The first thing Hattie learned about Gideon Hayes was that he did not waste words.
The second was that he did not seem to understand conversation for its own sake.
They rode north for nearly six hours after their wedding.
Whenever Hattie asked how much farther they had to travel, he gave answers such as, “A while,” or, “Before dark.”
When she asked whether the trail became dangerous, he replied, “Sometimes.”
When she asked whether there were bears around his property, he said, “Yes.”
Hattie finally stopped her horse.
Gideon rode another ten yards before noticing.
He turned.
“What?”
“Do you charge by the word?”
His brow furrowed.
Hattie folded her arms.
“I have married a man whose entire conversational vocabulary appears to consist of weather warnings and single syllables.”
“You talk enough for both of us.”
Hattie stared.
Then, despite herself, she laughed.
Gideon looked confused.
That only made it worse.
It was the first time Hattie had laughed since arriving in Colorado.
They continued.
The mining town disappeared behind them.
The trail climbed through dense pine forests, narrow ridges, and valleys where streams were already crusted with ice.
Hattie had grown up in Pennsylvania winters.
She thought she understood cold.
Colorado corrected her.
The mountain air seemed sharp enough to cut through wool.
By late afternoon her fingers ached inside her gloves.
Gideon noticed.
Without speaking, he removed a thick pair of fur-lined mittens from one of his saddlebags and handed them over.
Hattie glanced at him.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
There it was again.
That strange contradiction.
His manners were rough enough to start fights.
But his actions were unexpectedly considerate.
As dusk approached, the trail narrowed along the side of a ridge.
Far below, dark trees covered a valley.
Above them rose a mountain with a crooked stone summit.
Gideon pointed.
“Dead Man’s Peak.”
“Comforting name.”
“Miners named it.”
“Were they optimistic men?”
“No.”
Hattie smiled faintly.
For the first time, Gideon almost smiled back.
The cabin appeared just before darkness.
Hattie had imagined something small.
It was larger than expected, built from heavy pine logs, with a stone chimney and attached shed.
A fenced pen stood nearby.
Two mules approached as Gideon dismounted.
Beyond the cabin, forests climbed toward the mountain.
There was no second house.
No neighboring farm.
No visible road.
Nothing.
Hattie stared.
“How far away is the nearest person?”
“During summer? Two hours.”
“And winter?”
Gideon began unloading supplies.
“Depends on the snow.”
“That was not an answer.”
“It’s the only one.”
Hattie climbed down.
Her legs nearly buckled after hours in the saddle.
Gideon’s hand closed around her elbow instantly.
She steadied herself.
His grip disappeared.
Neither spoke.
Inside, the cabin was warm.
It was also filthy.
Hattie stopped two steps through the door.
A layer of dust covered nearly everything.
Dirty dishes sat in a basin.
Boots were scattered beside the hearth.
Several shirts hung over chairs.
Animal hides occupied one corner.
A cast-iron skillet contained something that might once have been potatoes.
Hattie slowly turned toward her husband.
Gideon had the decency to look uncomfortable.
“You live like this?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So have rats.”
“No rats.”
“They saw the conditions and left.”
Something happened to Gideon’s face.
It took Hattie a moment to recognize it.
He was trying not to laugh.
That irritated her.
She pointed toward the table.
“You find this amusing?”
“A little.”
“Excellent. Tomorrow you can laugh while carrying wash water.”
His amusement disappeared.
Hattie removed her coat.
For twenty minutes she walked through the cabin assessing the damage.
There were two bedrooms.
One was clearly Gideon’s.
The second had been shut.
She reached for the handle.
Gideon’s voice came from behind her.
“Not that room.”
Hattie paused.
“Why?”
“It’s storage.”
She looked at him.
The answer came too quickly.
Hattie released the handle.
“Fine.”
She did not ask again.
Not that night.
Dinner consisted of beans, salted pork, and biscuits Gideon had purchased in town.
They ate opposite each other.
Hattie noticed that Gideon kept glancing at her.
Finally she put down her spoon.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve looked at me twelve times.”
“You counted?”
“There isn’t much else to do.”
He looked toward the fire.
Hattie leaned forward.
“You embarrassed me today.”
His jaw tightened.
“In the saloon.”
“I know.”
“Calling me the heavy one.”
“I said it badly.”
“That might be the closest thing to an apology you’re capable of.”
He looked directly at her.
“I’m sorry.”
The simplicity of it unsettled her.
She had expected excuses.
Most men Hattie had known would have insisted she was too sensitive.
Gideon did not.
Hattie nodded.
“Accepted.”
Silence returned.
Later, Gideon showed her the second bed in his room.
Hattie stopped.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“No?”
“We married today. That does not mean you get to behave as though we’ve known each other for ten years.”
His expression became unreadable.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll sleep by the fire.”
Hattie immediately felt foolish.
She covered it with irritation.
“Good.”
Gideon collected a blanket.
At the doorway, he stopped.
“There’s a lock.”
Hattie followed his gaze toward the bedroom door.
“For me?”
“If it makes you feel safer.”
She swallowed.
“Yes.”
“All right.”
He left.
Hattie locked the door.
For several minutes she stood there, listening.
Gideon moved around the front room.
Added wood to the fire.
Then everything became quiet.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
She was married.
That thought still felt absurd.
She removed her boots.
Something caught her attention.
On the dresser was a faint rectangular mark in the dust.
Something had once rested there.
A photograph perhaps.
It had recently been removed.
Hattie touched the clean outline.
Then she remembered the closed bedroom.
Storage, Gideon had said.
Outside, wind pressed against the cabin.
Hattie climbed beneath the blankets.
Sleep did not come easily.
At some point after midnight, she heard Gideon moving.
Then footsteps.
Not toward the front door.
Toward the closed bedroom.
Hattie sat up.
The floor creaked.
A door opened.
Minutes passed.
Then she heard something she never expected.
A man crying.
Quietly.
As though he had learned long ago how to keep grief from making noise.
Hattie lay back.
She did not investigate.
Some doors should be opened by the person standing behind them.
The next morning she woke before sunrise.
Gideon was already outside.
Hattie entered the main room.
The fire had been rebuilt.
Coffee waited near the hearth.
Beside her cup sat a folded piece of cloth.
She opened it.
Inside was a small piece of honeycomb.
A luxury in winter.
No note.
Of course not.
Hattie smiled despite herself.
Then her gaze drifted toward the forbidden room.
Its door was closed again.
But this time something lay on the floor outside it.
A photograph.
Hattie picked it up.
A beautiful young woman stared back at her.
She was blonde.
Slim.
Delicate.
Everything Hattie was not.
On the back, written in faded ink, were five words.
Mary Hayes, winter of 1877.
Hattie heard Gideon entering behind her.
She turned.
He saw the photograph.
May you like
And the little warmth she had begun to see in him vanished.
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