His gaze lifted to hers. “No.”
The room fell quiet but for the stitch of the needle through cloth and the small sighs of sleeping children.
Then Elias said, like a man leaping from a cliff because standing at the edge had become unbearable, “Ruth, I mean to marry you. Proper. Soon as a preacher can be found and you’ll consent.”
Her hands stopped moving.
He pushed on, cheeks reddening. “I know I’m rough. I know I ain’t given to smooth words. I’ve never done this before, and likely I’m doing it poor now. But I love you. I love how you steady a room just by entering it. I love how our boys look for you first when they’re hurt or glad. I love the hymns you hum when you knead bread and the way you speak to God like He’s worth trusting even after what people did to you. I’d rather fail as a husband learning than spend one more season pretending you are just a guest in my cabin.”
Ruth stared at him through rising tears. All her life, desire had been spoken around her as something that belonged to other women. Choice was for slender girls, fertile girls, pretty girls, wanted girls. She had long ago made a hard peace with never being chosen.
Yet here stood a mountain man, trembling more than she had ever seen him tremble, offering not rescue now but partnership.
“Yes,” she whispered.
