I admitted that no one ever found proof of exactly how she died.
Then I told Josephine I'd stopped looking because every trail eventually ended in another lie.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, the cabin felt very quiet.
Then she asked softly.
"Did you love her?"
I stared at the fire.
"More than I understood at the time."
Josephine nodded.
For a moment, she looked sad.
Then she said something unexpected.
"Then I'm glad she was loved."
I turned toward her.
Her eyes glistened.
She didn't ask whether I still loved Eliza.
Didn't demand that I forget the past.
She simply acknowledged a woman she'd never met as someone who had mattered.
And I loved her a little for that.
Though I didn't yet have the courage to recognize the feeling.
As February deepened, we began reading together after supper.
Josephine had brought several books in her trunk, including poems, a collection of short stories, and a worn volume of travel accounts. She also carried a notebook filled with her own writing, which she guarded with the seriousness of a banker protecting gold.
I wasn't much of a reader.
I'd learned enough to manage accounts, contracts, and letters, but long evenings with books weren't something I'd cultivated.
Josephine decided that had to change.
One night she handed me a collection of poems.
"Read this."
I looked at the page.
"Why?"
"Because I want to hear it."
I frowned.
"You can read it yourself."
She smiled.
"I know."
I stared at her.
She raised one eyebrow.
"Are you afraid of a little poetry, cowboy?"
That did it.
I took the book.
Then spent fifteen minutes stumbling through verses I didn't understand while Josephine tried very hard not to laugh.
When I finally finished, she applauded.
I glared at her.
"Never again."
She smiled.
"Tomorrow we'll try another."
I shook my head.
But the next evening, I found myself wondering which poem she'd choose.
One afternoon, while repairing the cabin's old chest, I discovered a small wooden box I'd nearly forgotten.
It contained a silver hair comb, a faded blue ribbon, and three letters Eliza had written during our courtship.
I sat on the floor holding the box.
For a moment, the cabin disappeared.
I was thirty-two again.
Standing outside a schoolhouse.
Watching a young woman with dark hair laugh because I'd arrived carrying wildflowers instead of the store-bought bouquet I'd promised.
She told me wildflowers were better.
I believed her.