“By Winter, You’ll Have My Son Growing Inside You” — The Giant Cowboy Vowed To The Lonely Widow

Chapter 5

Two days before the wedding, Clara woke to the sound of hammering on her roof.

She dressed quickly and stepped outside to find Gideon balanced on the steep slope above her bedroom, replacing the damaged shingles that had been letting in rain for months. His shirt was already damp with sweat despite the cool morning, and his movements showed the easy competence of a man comfortable with physical labor.

“Mr. Stone?” She shaded her eyes against the sun. “What are you doing?”

He paused, looking down at her with that steady expression she was beginning to recognize. “Fixing your roof. Can’t have my future wife sleeping under a leak.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Yes, I do.” He resumed hammering, driving each nail with precise strikes. “Besides, it gives me something to do with my hands while I wait for Sunday.”

She watched him work for several minutes, noting the careful way he aligned each shingle, the methodical progress across the damaged section. This was a man who finished what he started, who took responsibility for the things and people under his protection. When was the last time someone had tended to her practical needs without being asked?

“There’s coffee, if you want some,” she called up.

“In a bit. Want to get this section done before the sun gets too hot.”

An hour later, he climbed down and joined her on the porch, accepting a cup of coffee and a plate of fried eggs with quiet gratitude. “The roof should hold through the winter now,” he said, wiping his mouth with the napkin she’d provided. “Though you won’t need to worry about that once we’re married.”

“About that.” Clara set down her own cup, gathering her courage. “I’ve been thinking about what happens after the wedding. About what kind of wife you’re hoping I’ll be.”

Ephraim— Gideon leaned back in his chair, studying her with that unnerving directness. “What kind of wife do you want to be?”

The question caught her off guard. Jonah had never asked what she wanted. He’d simply assumed she’d be happy with the role of helpmate and eventual mother. But Gideon was asking her to define herself, to choose her own path within the boundaries of their arrangement.

“I want to be useful,” she said finally. “I want to contribute more than just my ability to bear children. I can work the farm, manage the household, even help with the livestock if needed. I don’t want to be ornamental.”

“Good. Because I wasn’t looking for ornamental.”

He finished his coffee, then reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch. “I brought you something.”

Clara accepted it with curious fingers, noting the soft texture of the well-worn leather and the careful stitching along the seams. Inside she found an assortment of dried herbs and roots, each wrapped in small cloth packets and labeled in careful handwriting.

“Feverfew for headaches,” Gideon explained, pointing to each packet as he spoke. “Willow bark for pain. Echinacea for keeping off illness. Chamomile for sleep troubles. And ginger root — for morning sickness, when the time comes.”

The thoughtfulness of it brought tears to her eyes. “You made this yourself?”

“Learned from my grandmother. She was half Norwegian, half Ojibwe, and she knew more about healing than any doctor I’ve met.” He watched her examine each carefully labeled packet. “A woman living alone needs to know how to take care of herself — especially through a pregnancy.”

The mention of pregnancy sent a flutter through her stomach. “You’re very confident that will happen quickly.”

“Are you not?”

“I was married to Jonah for four years without conceiving.” The shame of the words was an old, familiar weight. “It may be that I’m not able to carry children.”

“Or it may be that you needed the right man to plant the seed.” His matter-of-fact tone made the intimate subject easier to discuss. “Either way, we won’t know until we try.”

Heat rose in her cheeks at the implication. In two days, she would be sharing this man’s bed, learning the most intimate details of his body and his desires. The thought should have frightened her. Instead, it sent an unexpected anticipation through her veins.

“I should probably tell you,” she said carefully, “that my experience with marital relations is somewhat limited.”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “Limited how?”

“Jonah was a gentleman. Very considerate of my comfort and my modesty. Our encounters were brief and infrequent — mostly when he hoped to create a child.”

Gideon was quiet for a long moment, processing this. When he spoke, his voice was gentle but firm: “Clara, I want you to understand something. When you become my wife, when you share my bed, it won’t be just for the purpose of making babies. A man and wife should find pleasure in each other. Should come together because they desire the connection as much as the result.”

“I don’t know if I’m capable of that kind of response,” she admitted, embarrassed by her own honesty.

“You won’t know until someone takes the time to teach you.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his, the touch warm and reassuring. “I’m not Jonah, Clara. I won’t treat you like you’re made of glass, and I won’t apologize for wanting you the way a man wants his wife. But I’ll be patient. I’ll make sure you’re ready before we take that step.”

When had anyone spoken to her about her own desires, her own capacity for pleasure? Jonah had been focused on the mechanics of procreation. But Gideon was talking about something else entirely — partnership, mutual satisfaction, the kind of physical intimacy she’d only heard whispered about by married women.

“How patient?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“As patient as you need me to be. Days, weeks, months, if necessary.” His thumb traced across her knuckles, the simple touch sending warmth up her arm. “But I hope it won’t take that long. I hope you’ll find reasons to want me as much as I already want you.”

I hope you’ll find reasons to want me as much as I already want you. The admission hung between them like a bridge she wasn’t sure she was ready to cross. He wanted her — not just as a vessel for his children, not just as a caretaker for his home, but as a woman.

“I should get back to work,” she said, though she made no move to pull her hand away.

“In a minute.” He turned her hand over, examining the calluses on her palm with gentle fingers. “These will heal, once you’re not working yourself to exhaustion every day.”

“I like my hands the way they are. They’re proof that I can take care of myself.”

“And now you’ll have proof that someone else wants to take care of you, too.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her palm that made her shiver. “Two more days, Clara. Two more days, and you’ll never have to face anything alone again.”