“Not because winter is lonely.”
“I chose the woman who wrote me thirteen pages about why I was wasting money buying canned peaches in January.”
“You were.”
“I know.”
“The woman who corrected my arithmetic from twelve hundred miles away.”
“You were wrong by fourteen dollars.”
“I know.”
“The woman who told me she hated roses because men only sent them after doing something stupid.”
“Still true.”
“The woman who wrote that she wanted a home where she never had to apologize for taking up space.”
Her eyes filled again.
He moved one hand toward her cheek.
Stopped.
She leaned into it herself.
His palm settled against warm skin.
“I read that sentence twenty times.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted this place to become that home.”
The storm battered the window.
She looked toward the white dress.
Then back at him.
“I brought this for tonight.”
“I guessed.”
“I almost didn’t put it on.”
“Why?”
“I felt foolish.”
“You don’t look foolish.”
“I thought maybe you’d think I was expecting…”
She blushed.
The cowboy smiled slightly.
“What?”
“Don't make me say it.”
“I genuinely don’t know what you mean.”
She looked at him incredulously.
Then realized he was serious.
That made her laugh harder.
“You really are hopeless.”
“Probably.”
She rested both hands against his chest.
“What if I told you I don’t want you sleeping in the other room tonight?”
The cowboy stopped smiling.
Not because he was displeased.
Because he understood the trust contained in the sentence.
He lowered his voice.
“Then I would ask whether you’re certain.”
“I am.”
“Because of the photograph?”
“No.”
“Because of six weeks.”
“Six weeks?”
“Of you giving me room.”
“Of you never touching me without asking.”
“Of you listening when I say no.”
“Of you pretending not to notice when I get tired before the walk back from the barn.”
“I notice.”
“I know.”
“Of you building a bench beside the chicken coop and pretending it was because you wanted somewhere to sharpen tools.”
He looked guilty.
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew.”
He sighed.
She smiled.
“And because today, when that woman humiliated me in the store, you didn't speak for me until I had already answered her myself.”
“I wanted to.”
“I know.”
“I nearly did.”
“I know.”
“Why was waiting important?”
“Because every man who has ever decided I needed protection also decided protection gave him ownership.”
The cowboy became quiet.
She continued.
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“That’s why.”
He touched her face.
“Then I’m certain too.”
They kissed.
Gently at first.
She trembled.
Not with fear of him.
With the strange terror of receiving something she had stopped believing life would offer.