I study her face, looking for any sign she’s making herself less demanding for my sake. I don’t find one. Rosalyn has only been exactly herself since coming here, filling my cabin with color and noise and those little lists she leaves on the counter. She’s made friends in town, taken over the pantry, and somehow convinced me that lacy curtains in the bedroom aren’t an attack on my manhood.
She squeezes my hand. “I promise. I don’t need a beach vacation. I want a slow day with you.”
“That I can do.”
“I know.”
After breakfast, I make sure she puts on the warmer socks before we walk down to the creek. She rolls her eyes but lets me do it, which is one of the great victories of marriage. The air is crisp, and the trail is easy underfoot, but I still keep one hand at her lower back when we step over roots and uneven patches. Rosalyn pretends not to notice me hovering until we reach the water.
“You know I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she says, leaning into my side anyway.
“I know.”
“You also know I hiked this trail before I was officially Mrs. Mountain Man.”
“You weren’t carrying my kid then.”
“Our kid,” she corrects.
“Our kid,” I say, suddenly feeling all damn emotional about it.
Her hand finds mine. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I look down at her belly, then at her face. “I just think about it a lot.”
“The baby?”
“You. The baby. All of it.” I clear my throat, rough because some feelings still don’t know how to come out clean. “Didn’t know I could want this much.”
She squeezes my hand. “I know what you mean.”
We sit on the flat rock by the creek where she first dipped her feet and shrieked at the cold. Today she keeps her boots on. We talk about small things. Whether the nursery shelves should go on the east wall. Whether Noah and Mindy will make it out before the baby comes. Whether we should raise chickens in the spring, which Rosalyn has been threatening ever since she saw an article about fresh eggs.
The rest of the day moves at her pace. I make soup while she sits at the counter and reads baby name lists out loud. I rub her feet on the couch while rain starts tapping against the windows. I bring in more wood before she can suggest helping, and when I come back inside, she’s standing in the doorway to the room that will become the nursery, a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Thinking?” I ask.
“Always.”
I step behind her and wrap my arms around her, careful of the baby though she tells me I don’t need to be so careful every damn day. The room is freshly painted. The crib pieces are stacked against the far wall, and a rocking chair Rosalyn found in town sits by the window.
“I love it here,” she says quietly.
I press my lips to her hair. “Good.”
“I love our life.”
“I do, too.”
We didn’t take the long way here. No year of dating. No big wedding. No endless planning before we chose each other. Wewent to city hall, ate diner pie afterward, and came home before dark because Rosalyn said she wanted our wedding night on the mountain.
Now her coats hang beside mine. Her books fill the shelves I built her. Her laughter lives in every room. And soon there’ll be a baby sleeping down the hall from us, making noise in a house I once thought was perfect because it was quiet.
“How many do you think we’ll have?” she asks.
“Kids?”
She nods, leaning back against me. “Yes.”
