You were too worn out to scold Caleb for tracking snow in the house when he came home. There were a few things you'd learned since the Sykes family selected you to marry their boy. And one of them was that no matter how many times you told him to take his boots off at the door, he wouldn't do it.

The only reason they'd picked you was because of your parents' debt anyways. It could've been any girl sitting on this couch. Sewing the holes in Caleb's clothes, making sure dinner was hot when he got home. Lest he pull that revolver on you next.

"'S fuckin' cold in here, woman," he drawled, letting his holster drop to the table with an unceremonious thunk. You recognized the words for what they were. Caleb may have a habit of running his mouth, but he ususally didn't say something without meaning. Without intent. What he'd presented as a simple observation from husband to wife was actually an order.

'It's fucking cold' was Sykes language for 'light the fireplace'. And Caleb expected you to listen.