"You're sure you want to do this?" asked Josie. Anne nodded. "And you know what might happen, and you're prepared for the consequences, regardless of what they might be?" Another nod. "Well, then. We'll take the cart after Abner and the boys have their breakfast."

"Thank you for doing this, Josie."

The blonde woman's gaze pierced Anne. "Are you really sure about this? You look sick."

"I am sure." Anne gulped. "But it feels awful. Disloyal." She looked up to see Josie's unimpressed expression.

"Well, it kind of is," she quipped. "But you said you couldn't pretend to be someone you're not anymore. So, maybe it's time you start acting like who you are. Make choices of your own."

"Like you did?" Anne tried for a raised eyebrow, but her attempts at sarcasm were wasted on Josie.

"I've always acted like myself."

"Your self was a mean, spoilt brat."

"And yours is selfless and kind?" Anne sighed in response, and Josie smirked victoriously. "Stop trying to deflect. Are you ready to drop the act, or not?"

Predictably, the redhead could never resist a challenge. Especially one she'd set herself. "Yes, I am. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," concurred Josie, and nodded goodnight before leaving for her own room, where her husband had crawled into bed.

"Is she leaving tomorrow?" Abner grumbled after blowing out his candle.

"Yes."

"I'll bring my trapping gear back in after noontime, then."

"No."

He frowned, and propped himself up on his elbow.

"No?" He could barely make out her shape in the dark, but he could feel her rustling the sheets.

"Wait until Friday. She might come back." Josie heard him sigh exasperatedly, and he rolled over toward the wall.

"Gear's gonna rust," he commented under his breath after two beats of silence.

"Your gear will be fine for another day or two."

"I'm not buying me new gear."

"You won't have to."

Four more beats of silence, then - good lord, he started, was that her hand on his arm? The touch was deliberate: a soft caress of the fingers, from the crook of his elbow to his bicep, and back down, a light squeeze of his skin. Curious, he turned to face her dark profile.

"I'm glad I married you," she whispered, and darned if he knew what to make of that.

"Get to sleep. Don't want you crashing the cart tomorrow," Abner commanded gruffly before turning around, oblivious to the gleeful grin illuminating his wife's face.

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Sarah Blythe watched Jem drink deeply from his cup of milk. Having exhausted himself by running around in the yard, the boy had barged in the kitchen and asked whether he could have a snack, throwing a winning smile her way for good measure. Well, when had Granny ever been able to refuse him anything? Seeing as they would be heading for the Wrights in less than an hour, she'd let him have some fruit and a bit of bread, served with a tall, cool drink. The freckled boy had grinned, and tucked right in.

While on the outside he was a carbon copy of his mother, Sarah saw her own son mirrored on the inside: a tender core of love and sensitivity swirled together, surrounded by a stoic, happy-go-lucky demeanor. Playful and optimistic, yet so concerned for others' welfare, and also an enormous need to be liked by all. An easy need to satisfy, because neither Jem nor Gilbert had ever had any difficulty making friends.

Except...well, there were memories of a thirteen year old boy dragging his feet home with his head carefully turned away from her, entering quietly through the backdoor...

"How was your day at school, sweetheart?" she asked, her voice strained and terse.

He gulped, averting his gaze. "It was fine, Ma. I told Dad I'd mend the wiring on the chicken coop-"

"The chickens can wait. Is there anything you care to tell me?" His posture, shoulders slumped guiltily, facing the floor, said it all.

"Gilbert." The sharp command made him look up, but he didn't turn to face her. She took his chin and turned him to face her - and promptly gasped. "What happened?" Not waiting for an answer, she fetched a rag to toss in a bowl of cool water. "Sit."

Complying immediately, he folded his tall (ever growing) frame into the closest chair. Sarah set the bowl on the table and took a seat in front of him, tamping down the urge to cajole him. She wrung out the cloth with practiced efficiency, and pressed it to his right eye, which was swollen, and bruising colorfully. "Tilt your head back," she instructed when some water dribbled down his neck. Pliant as a kitten, her son obeyed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the inevitable scolding. Deep down, she knew he was a good kid. So, he got into a little trouble: boys would be boys.

"Now, are you ready to talk?" Coaxed through her gentle tone, she could see him steeling himself for a conversation which he did not want to have.

"Me and Charlie were just having an- er, argument."

"With your fists?"

"He started it."

"And you riposted?" She didn't miss the way his jaw tensed. "Gilbert, it's only your third day back in school! You said you were looking forward to seeing your friends, and you come home like THIS! And to make matters worse," she went on, shame flooding her face, "I had to hear from Mrs. Andrews that a girl hit you and screamed at you in the classroom! What is going on?"

A drop ran down his other cheek, and his face crumbled. "I hate it here," he said through trembling lips, his voice squeaking with adolescence. "I don't want to go to school anymore."

"Oh, sweetie," Sarah sighed, wiping at his tears. "It's alright. Talk to me."

Through sniffles and a fresh rag on his eye, he gave her an abbreviated and heavily censored account of what would later be known as the slate incident. "I tried to tell Mr. Phillips it was my fault, and I apologized to Anne, but they wouldn't listen," he finished woefully.

Oh, her poor boy. He'd been terribly isolated during a period in which children needed their peers in order to develop, to take that step towards adulthood. While caring for his father had matured Gilbert beyond his years, his social growth had been momentarily stunted. Guilt that she hadn't been there for him ate at her, even though she knew she'd had no choice in the matter.

"Charlie was making fun of me today at recess" he recounted. "He was saying that only sissies let girls hit them - even though she didn't, it was a slate - and that I was a coward for not striking back. I told him I would never strike a girl, and asked him what he'd do about it. And, well...he punched, and I punched back."

Kids these days. Sarah shook her head. "How badly did you punch back? Will I have to pay a visit to Mrs. Sloane?"

Gilbert shook his head. "I'll go apologize."

So, maybe not as stunted as she thought. Taken aback by his initiative, she smiled. "You do that. Let me put some peppermint oil on your eye first."

"Alright, Mama." And he'd submitted himself to her ministrations, gazing up at her through his good eye.

"Can I go now?"

Sarah snapped out of her reminiscence to find Jem staring at her expectantly, sitting at the very spot his father had occupied half a lifetime ago.

"What was that, sweetheart?"

"Can I go now?" the orange-headed boy with the milk mustache asked again, eager to go outside and spend more of his endless supply of energy.

"May I go, not can."

"May I go?" he repeated, adding "Please?" as an afterthought. His efforts earned him a warm smile from his Granny.

"You may. And keep those trousers clean, you won't have time to change before supper," she called in vain as the boy scampered off, dodging the entering form of Mr. Garrison at the last minute.

"Lively little fellow," commented the man. "Never tires of running around, does he?"

Sarah Blythe shook her head. "He takes after his father. And his mother. She used to spend more time outdoors than in."

"Anne? Really?"

Something irked her about his fascination. If she were to be honest, something irked her about the man, period. Perhaps it was the way this stranger came into their lives, claiming to know Anne. To what level, it was unclear. All she knew was that Gilbert tensed up when Mr. Garrison brought her up, yet he refused to send him away, or even to put him up at the inn in White Sands.

"Yes," Sarah simply said. "She and Gilbert used to go running about all over the place. Like children, they were."

"Hard to imagine, that."

Sarah found herself on the verge of delivering a biting reply, when the door flung open again.

"Granny, Grandad says it's time to go!"

"Alright, Jem, go get your brother." Saved from losing her composure by her grandson, Sarah Blythe resolved to tell Gilbert her honest opinion of Mr. Garrison. The man needed to go, or she might find herself nursing another black eye.