For several seconds, she couldn't answer.
Then she laughed through tears.
"Hiram."
I looked up.
She reached for my face.
"You stubborn, wonderful man."
I smiled shakily.
"That a yes?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
Then laughed again.
"Of course it's yes."
I slipped the ring onto her finger.
She drew me closer.
And kissed me with a tenderness that made all the years of loneliness seem suddenly very far away.
We married in a small ceremony before the first autumn snow.
Micah Cole attended despite his age.
Mrs. Bell brought a beautiful cake.
Whitcomb arrived wearing the same unfashionable coat he'd worn during the hearings.
Several ranchers helped decorate the cabin's sheltered outdoor platform with flowers.
Josephine wore her dusty-rose gown, carefully altered for the occasion and finished with ivory lace she'd made herself.
Her chestnut hair was arranged in soft curls.
She looked radiant.
I wore a clean dark-olive shirt, a polished leather vest, and boots Josephine insisted I scrub until they looked respectable.
When I complained about the boots, she laughed.
"You're marrying me, cowboy. You can survive clean leather."
I grinned.
"Only for you."
The ceremony was simple.
There was no need for grand promises spoken before strangers.
We had already faced winter, grief, fear, and the difficult work of telling each other the truth.
When the officiant asked whether I took Josephine as my wife, I looked into her eyes.
"With all my heart."
She began crying.
Then laughed.
When it was her turn, she answered with a confidence that filled the little gathering.
"Yes. Every day."
Afterward, I kissed her.
The guests applauded.
And Copper, apparently offended by being ignored, gave a loud whinny from the stable.
Everyone laughed.
Josephine leaned toward me.
"I think he approves."
I smiled.
"Either that or he wants the cake."
Marriage didn't make our lives effortless.
My knees still ached during storms.
Josephine still had days when movement was difficult and fatigue made ordinary tasks frustrating.
The cabin required constant repairs.
And our work sometimes left us tired enough to argue over foolish things.
She thought I used too much salt.
I believed she kept moving my tools.
She claimed I never listened properly when she explained where supplies belonged.
I insisted that a man couldn't be expected to remember the location of every button, ribbon, and sewing needle in the territory.
But we learned.
We apologized when we were wrong.