Then Gideon Rook arrived.
At thirty-eight, Gideon owned the largest ranch beyond the northern ridge.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and almost completely deaf.
The townspeople had transformed those facts into something sinister, calling him the “half-mad deaf rancher.”
During the ceremony, Gideon barely brushed Rosalie’s cheek when instructed to kiss his bride.
On the wagon ride to his isolated property, he remained silent.
But Rosalie knew cruelty; cruelty smelled like whiskey on her father’s breath and sounded like creditors pounding on the door.
Gideon smelled of pine, leather, and woodsmoke.
His cabin surprised her.
The floors were clean, a fire burned brightly, fresh bread waited beneath a cloth, and clean blankets covered the bed.
Then Gideon opened a worn notebook: The bedroom belongs to you.
I’ll sleep beside the fire.
Rosalie read the sentence twice.
She had prepared herself for violence; she had not prepared herself for kindness.
