Chapter 30 #2
Jonas let out a slow breath. “You'd be disappointed if that's what you were waiting for.”
Martha's mouth trembled slightly. “I'm trying not to decide what you feel before you tell me.”
That reminded him of something Reuben had said in the pasture, though said in different words.
Jonas rested his head more heavily against the pillow.
“I don't know what I feel half the time.”
“You're angry.”
“Yes.”
She absorbed the answer without flinching away from it.
“And hurt,” he added.
“I know.”
“I'm trying to understand how you could hear what happened to my father and still not tell me.”
Martha's eyes glistened.
“I don't have an answer that makes it better.”
“I don't think there is one.”
“No.” Her voice softened. “There isn't.”
Jonas watched the first weak daylight brighten the edge of the curtain.
He had spent hours before the kidnapping trying to separate different kinds of anger. Reuben had forced him to admit what grief was Martha's to carry and what was not.
Now, looking at her, Jonas knew he needed to say it aloud.
“My father’s death isn't your burden to bear.”
Martha went still.
Jonas turned his face toward her. “His death. What happened to us afterward. You don't carry that.”
Her lips parted.
“The Voss Gang killed him before you ever knew them,” Jonas continued. “You didn't help. You weren't there. I won't put that on you because of what you did later.”
A tear slipped down Martha's cheek.
She wiped it away immediately.
“Thank you.”
He had heard enough explanations to understand how she had become involved. A lonely nineteen-year-old, a husband she trusted, men who made belonging feel conditional on usefulness. He could have compassion for that woman.
He could also believe she had made terrible choices.
Both things were true.
“I forgive you,” he said.
Martha's breath caught.
Jonas felt something tighten in his own chest as the words settled between them.
He had not known he was ready to say them until he did.
Martha did not smile.
That made him love her more.
Her eyes searched his face instead. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“For all of it?”
“No.”
The surprise in her expression was almost comical.
Jonas shifted carefully, ignoring the fresh complaint from his leg. “I can't forgive you on behalf of the people you helped rob. I can't decide what the law should do with what happened either.”
Understanding slowly replaced the confusion.
“But what you did to me,” he continued, “keeping the truth from me after you knew what it meant—that I can forgive.”
Martha pressed her lips together.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Jonas shook his head. “Don't thank me yet.”
Her brows lifted slightly.
“Forgiving you doesn't mean I know how to trust you the same way tomorrow.”
She lowered her gaze.
“I don't want to wonder every time something is difficult whether you're telling me everything.”
“You shouldn't have to.”
“I don't want to learn another part of your life because someone else forces it out of you.”
Martha looked back at him. “You won't.”
The promise came quickly, but she seemed to hear it herself and reconsider.
“No,” she said more carefully. “I can't prove that by promising it once.”
Jonas watched her.
“I can tell you the truth from now on,” she continued. “Even when it makes me afraid you'll leave. Then I suppose you decide what that means over time.”
Something in his chest eased.
“That sounds more believable.”
A watery smile crossed her face. “I've discovered I'm much less impressive when I'm honest.”
“I wouldn't say that.”
“You haven't heard everything I told Crane.”
“I imagine I'll survive.”
Her smile faded into something softer.
Jonas extended his hand across the blanket.
Martha stared at it.
For a moment he wondered whether she thought he was asking for more than he meant to give.
Then she placed her hand in his.
Her fingers were cool.
He turned her wrist carefully enough to see the raw skin circling it.
Martha tried to pull away.
Jonas held on gently. “Stop hiding every injury because you think somebody else has it worse.”
Her eyes flicked toward his bandaged leg.
“I was kidnapped.”
“Yes.”
“You were shot.”
“Yes.”
“I'm comfortable with the comparison.”
Jonas rubbed his thumb carefully against an uninjured patch of skin near her palm. “Stubborn.”
“That makes two of us.”
He looked at her.
For the first time since waking, neither of them seemed to need words immediately.
The gray beyond the curtains had brightened into morning. Downstairs, someone opened the front door, letting in a brief gust of cold air that traveled through the old building. A moment later came the muffled sound of Percy protesting something to Eliza.
Martha's head turned toward the noise.
Affection softened her face.
Jonas thought about all the ways her life had become tangled with this place. Percy. Eliza. The people who had helped rebuild the stable even before they understood everything about the woman they were helping.
Then he thought of the damaged west wing.
The inn was still standing. And though it wasn’t untouched, nor what it once had been, it was, nonetheless, still standing.
Martha looked back at him. “What happens now?”
Jonas understood that she was not asking about Silas.
“I don't know.”
She nodded.
This time, uncertainty did not seem to terrify her.
Jonas squeezed her hand.
“When Keller lets me out of this bed, I'll go home.”
A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she did not hide it. “You should.”
“My brothers need me.”
“Yes.”
“And you have things here you need to face.”
Her fingers tightened around his. “I do.”
Jonas let the next words come slowly because he wanted both of them to understand them.
“That doesn't mean I'm leaving you.”
Martha's eyes filled again.
“I don't know what rebuilding this looks like,” he said. “I don't know how long it takes.”
“Neither do I.”
“But I want to find out.”
Her shoulders trembled once before she steadied them.
“So do I.”
Jonas lifted her hand and pressed it lightly against his chest.
No promises about forever.
Not yet.
No pretending love had repaired what fear and secrecy had damaged.
But Martha did not pull away, and Jonas did not let go.
For now, that was enough.