The winter that was supposed to kill them made them stronger.
By March, Colum could walk from the farmhouse to the barn without assistance.
He limped badly.
His right foot dragged when he grew tired.
Cold weather brought pain through his hips and lower back.
But he walked.
Every step seemed to insult the people who had been certain he never would.
Martha enjoyed that more than she admitted.
Their furniture business grew with the spring.
The lean-to beside the barn became a proper workshop.
Colum built a workbench at the right height so he could rest against it when his legs weakened.
Martha learned to plane boards.
He taught her dovetail joints.
She taught him not to swear when a joint failed.
He ignored that lesson.
One morning Colum came into the kitchen carrying a ledger.
“We have a problem.”
Martha looked up from kneading dough.
“What broke?”
“Nothing.”
“Cow?”
“Fine.”
“Roof?”
“Fine.”
“Then I don’t recognize this kind of problem.”
He set the ledger down.
“We have nine orders.”
Martha stared.
“Nine?”
“Three tables. Twelve chairs. A cradle. Two cabinets. And Reverend Wilkes wants pew repairs.”
Martha wiped flour from her hands.
“That’s not a problem.”
“I’m one man.”
“One stubborn man.”
“Still one.”
She smiled.
“Then we hire somebody.”
Colum stared as though she had suggested buying the railroad.
“With what?”
“Money.”
“We need that.”
“Workers generally do.”
He opened the ledger.
“If we hire one hand—”
“Two.”
“Martha.”
“Two.”
“Why?”
“Because one will spend half his time helping you lift timber.”
His pride immediately bristled.
“I can lift timber.”
“You can. You also spend an hour afterward pretending your back isn’t hurting.”
Colum glared.
Martha raised her eyebrows.
“Two.”
He closed the ledger.
“Fine.”
Their first workers were brothers named Ben and Silas Carter, young farmers whose family had lost land during the drought.
Their third was a fifteen-year-old boy named Tommy Webb whose father drank most of his wages.
Martha insisted Tommy’s pay go directly into an envelope she kept locked in the kitchen until the boy needed it.
Colum did not question her.
By June, the workshop employed five people.
Customers came from three counties.
The people of Oak Ridge who had once ridden past Martha’s farm laughing now stopped their wagons to ask whether Colum could make wardrobes, tables and bedsteads.
Martha sold bread, preserves and pies to travelers waiting for orders.
Their farm began to breathe again.
The north field was replanted.
Fence rails were replaced.
The barn roof was repaired.
Martha bought two milk cows.
Then four pigs.
And one afternoon, she bought herself something completely unnecessary.
A blue dress.
Not dark blue.
Not practical blue.
Bright summer blue.
When she walked into the farmhouse wearing it, Colum was sharpening a chisel.
He looked up.
The chisel stopped moving.
Martha immediately became self-conscious.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
He set the tool down.
“That color.”
“What about it?”
“It suits you.”
Martha looked toward the mirror.
The dress emphasized every part of her body she had spent years trying to hide.
Her full hips.
Her broad waist.
Her heavy arms.
For once, she did not care.
She turned.
“It was expensive.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“You’ve spent two years buying fence wire.”
“Fence wire is useful.”
“So is being happy.”
She met his eyes through the mirror.
Something passed between them.
Something that had been quietly growing for months.
Then Martha heard a wagon outside.
The moment broke.
Amos Higgins stepped down from it.
Martha’s happiness vanished.
She walked onto the porch.
“What now?”
Amos held no papers.
No smile.
That worried her more.
“I came to talk business.”
“We have none.”
“You’ve got more timber than you can use.”
“We can use it.”
“Railway surveyors came through last week.”
Colum stepped outside behind Martha.
Amos glanced at him.
“Line may pass six miles south.”
“So?” Martha asked.
“They’ll need ties. Thousands.”
Martha understood.
“You want my timber.”
“I want partnership.”
Colum laughed once.
Amos ignored him.
“I have sawmill access. You have walnut, oak and cottonwood.”
“Walnut doesn’t go into railroad ties,” Colum said.
Amos frowned.
“Wasn’t talking to you.”
“You should. I know timber.”
Amos’s jaw tightened.
“I’m offering Martha five hundred dollars for cutting rights.”
Martha almost reacted.
Five hundred dollars was more money than she had ever held.
Colum remained expressionless.
“How many acres?”
“All north twenty-two.”
“For how long?”
“Until cleared.”
Colum laughed again.
Amos turned.
“Something funny?”
“You’re offering five hundred dollars for timber worth at least four times that milled.”
Martha looked at Colum.
Amos’s face reddened.
“You guessing?”
“No.”
“I’ve logged Colorado and Wyoming.”
“This isn’t Colorado.”
“A tree doesn’t care.”
Amos stepped toward him.
“You really think because you can walk now, you’re somebody?”
Colum’s expression changed.
Martha saw the old mountain man appear—the one who must have survived winters alone where other men died.
He said quietly, “I knew I was somebody when I couldn’t walk.”
Amos stopped.
Colum continued.
“Martha knew it too.”
The words hit her unexpectedly.
Amos looked between them.
Then sneered.
“This whole town knows what this is.”
Martha’s voice sharpened.
“What?”
“You two playing house because nobody else would take either one of you.”
Silence fell.
Ben and Silas stopped working inside the shop.
Tommy appeared at the barn door.
Amos continued because cruelty had always been his favorite weapon.
“Fat widow and broken cripple. Fine pair.”
Colum took one step.
Martha stopped him with a hand against his chest.
“No.”
He looked down at her.
She stepped in front of him.
“Amos.”
“What?”
“You were right about one thing.”
He smiled.
“You did bring me a present.”
His smile vanished.
Martha continued.
“The best thing you ever did for me was throw that man into my dirt.”
Amos stared.
“You wanted us to destroy each other.”
She looked around the farm.
At the repaired barn.
The workshop.
The cattle.
The green field.
The workers.
Then back at Amos.
“You miscalculated.”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“No.”
“Think carefully.”
“I have.”
“Railroad money changes towns.”
“Then make your fortune somewhere else.”
His eyes hardened.
“You’ll regret this.”
Colum said, “That sounded like a threat.”
Amos forced a smile.
“Advice.”
He returned to his wagon.
Martha watched him leave.
Only after the sound of wheels faded did Colum speak.
“You called me the best present he ever gave you.”
Martha turned.
“Don’t become unbearable.”
“Too late.”
She walked toward the house.
Colum followed.
“Martha.”
“What?”
“I mean it.”
She stopped.
He stood only a foot away.
The limp remained.
The scars remained.
But she no longer saw either first.
“I don’t want to be your charity,” he said.
“You haven’t been that for a long time.”
“I don’t want to be your hired hand.”
“You’re terrible at following orders anyway.”
“Martha.”
His seriousness silenced her.
“I don’t know what this is.”
She did.
That frightened her.
Colum continued.
“I lived alone a long time before the bear.”
“How long?”
“Eleven years.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the distant trees.
“My wife died.”
Martha had never known.
“I’m sorry.”
“She was twenty-seven. Fever. We had a boy.”
Martha’s heart tightened.
“Had?”
“Same fever.”
“Oh, Colum.”
“I buried them two days apart.”
He swallowed.
“After that, I went into the mountains because trees didn’t ask questions.”
Martha understood more than he knew.
“I thought I was finished with people.”
He looked at her.
“Then Amos threw me out of a wagon.”
Despite the sadness, Martha smiled.
“He does have odd timing.”
Colum smiled too.
Then his expression softened.
“You made me angry enough to live.”
“That may be the nicest insult anyone’s given me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He reached for her hand.
Martha let him take it.
“I think about you when you’re in the next room.”
Her breath caught.
“I listen for you when you go to the field.”
He stepped closer.
“I notice when you laugh.”
“Colum—”
“And when you wore that blue dress, I forgot what I was doing.”
“You were sharpening a chisel.”
“I nearly sharpened my thumb.”
She laughed.
He did too.
Then neither laughed.
Martha whispered, “I’m afraid.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“This.”
His thumb moved across her knuckles.
“So am I.”
Martha searched his eyes.
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Means I’m not the only fool.”
She kissed him.
It was not dramatic.
No thunder.
No music.
No audience.
Just two tired people standing beside a farmhouse that should have failed, choosing something neither had expected to find again.
When they separated, Colum rested his forehead against hers.
“Martha Bell.”
“Yes?”
“I think I’m in trouble.”
“You have been since August.”
But beyond the north field, Amos Higgins was already planning how to make good on his threat.