“I'm so angry.”
He nodded.
“You've got reason to be.”
She looked toward him.
“Do you know how many times he told me I didn't understand business?”
The rancher remained silent.
She continued.
“How many times he suggested that a man should handle the account?”
Her voice broke.
“All while he was hiding why he wanted the land.”
The rancher looked at her.
For a moment, he wanted to promise that he would settle everything.
He wanted to confront the banker.
He wanted to pay the debt and make the problem disappear.
But he remembered the way she guarded her independence.
So instead, he asked something.
“What do you want to do?”
She stared.
The question surprised her.
Most people told her what she should do.
Few asked.
She took a slow breath.
Then looked toward her father's ledger.
“I want the proper account.”
The rancher nodded.
“And?”
“I want every payment credited.”
He nodded again.
She continued.
“And I want the land to remain mine.”
He smiled faintly.
“Then that's what we'll work toward.”
She looked at him.
For a long moment, her anger gave way to something softer.
“You keep saying we.”
He looked surprised.
She smiled.
“Why?”
He hesitated.
Then answered quietly.
“Because I don't like the thought of you facing this alone.”
Her eyes filled.
He reached toward her.
Then stopped, giving her room to decide.
She placed her hand in his.
For several seconds, they sat together.
Then she whispered, “I'm beginning to depend on you.”
The rancher looked at her.
“Does that frighten you?”
She nodded.
“More than I'd like to admit.”
He looked down.
“Me too.”
She stared.
He continued.
“I've lived alone a long time. I know how to manage cattle, storms, and broken fences.”
He gave a small smile.
“But I don't know much about caring for somebody without being afraid of losing them.”
Her expression softened.
She squeezed his hand.
“Then perhaps we're both learning.”
He nodded.
“Reckon we are.”
That night, after supper, he helped move a heavy sack of salt into the smokehouse storage area.
The woman showed him where it belonged.
As he set it down, he noticed a wooden box beneath the lower shelf.
Its lid was decorated with small carved flowers.
He glanced toward it.
“Your father's work?”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
He looked closer.
The carving was delicate.
Unusually careful for someone who spent most of his life working with heavy timber.