I thanked the woman.
She waved dismissively.
"Your money's as good as anybody else's."
Josephine smiled.
"That's a refreshing opinion."
Edith laughed.
"Sweetheart, I've run this place twenty-three years. People come in every shape and temperament. It's the temperament gives me trouble."
I liked her immediately.
We spent the evening reviewing the documents.
Then, after supper, Josephine asked whether I'd walk with her through the lower part of town using the broad wagon as needed.
I agreed.
We visited a small shop selling fabrics and sewing supplies.
Josephine examined lace, buttons, and carefully dyed ribbon with the delighted seriousness of a child entering a candy store.
I stood beside her carrying packages.
For the first time in years, I felt like a man courting someone.
It was unfamiliar.
A little frightening.
And wonderful.
Not everyone in Silver Bend was kind.
The following morning, while we were waiting outside the records office, two men standing near the livery stable began making remarks about Josephine.
They whispered loudly enough for us to hear.
One laughed at her size.
The other made a crude comment about why an older cowboy might choose such a companion.
My hands tightened.
For an instant, I wanted to walk across the street and explain manners in a language those men would understand.
Josephine noticed.
She caught my wrist.
"Hiram."
I looked toward her.
Her expression was composed.
"Don't."
"They've got no right—"
"I know."
She held my gaze.
"I've heard worse."
That didn't make me feel better.
But she continued.
"If you want to help me, stand here and keep treating me like the woman you came to town with."
I stared.
Then slowly relaxed my hands.
She smiled faintly.
"I didn't spend twenty-five years learning to live in this body just to let two fools decide whether I deserve to enjoy a morning."
I felt ashamed of how quickly I'd allowed anger to take control.
I took her hand.
"You're right."
She raised one eyebrow.
"Would you care to repeat that?"
I laughed despite myself.
"Don't get accustomed to it."
She smiled.
And the men across the street lost the audience they wanted.
We found Micah Cole in a small house beside the old mission school.
He was eighty-one, thin as a fence rail, with white hair, watery blue eyes, and the stubborn alertness of a man who had spent his life reading documents other people hoped would be ignored.