He had laid his money on the counter, taken the flour, coffee, lamp oil, and nails they had already purchased, and walked out before anger convinced him to do something stupid.
The woman had remained composed all the way home.
Until now.
“I saw your face,” she whispered.
“My face?”
“When they laughed.”
The cowboy understood.
“You thought I was embarrassed.”
She did not answer.
That was answer enough.
He released the chair.
Took one step toward her.
She stiffened.
He stopped immediately.
The distance between them remained several feet.
He had learned that about her during the first week.
Never assume closeness.
Offer it.
Let her decide.
The woman noticed he had stopped.
That made the fear in her expression worse.
“You see?” she whispered.
“No.”
“You won’t even come near me.”
“Because you look frightened.”
“Of you?”
“I don't know.”
The woman gave a broken little laugh.
“That’s almost funny.”
“What is?”
“For years, men looked at me like I was something they couldn’t get away from fast enough.”
She pressed a palm against her white dress.
“And now the first man who has ever treated me like I’m simply a woman is standing six feet away because he’s afraid I might not want him close.”
The cowboy said nothing.
Her eyes filled.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Believe you.”
That hurt more than the insult in town.
Not because he blamed her.
Because he finally understood how much damage had occurred before she ever reached Wyoming.
The woman looked toward the floor.
“You wrote that you wanted a wife.”
“Yes.”
“You paid for the journey.”
“Yes.”
“You met me at the stagecoach.”
“Yes.”
“And you never said a cruel word.”
“No.”
“Sometimes that makes it worse.”
His expression changed.
“How?”
“Because I keep waiting.”
“For what?”
“For the moment you finally tell me what everybody else has always told me.”
His voice softened.
“What’s that?”
“That I’m too much.”
Silence.
She breathed through trembling lips.
“Too large.”
“Too difficult.”
“Too noticeable.”
“Too expensive to feed.”
“Too embarrassing to bring into town.”
“Too heavy for ordinary furniture.”
“Too much trouble to love.”
The cowboy stared.
The woman continued before courage disappeared.
“I know what I look like.”
“You think I don't see the way people stare?”
“You think I didn’t see your neighbors watching when I climbed down from the stagecoach?”
“You think I didn’t notice you built that chair?”
She pointed toward the reinforced wooden chair near the fire.
The cowboy looked at it.
“I built it because the old one was narrow.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because you had already built it before I arrived.”
The cowboy froze.
She had noticed.
Of course she had.