Josephine looked up.
“You told me in winter that I would sleep wherever I chose.”
“Yes.”
“You still mean that?”
“Yes.”
“If I choose your room?”
His eyes darkened.
“Yes.”
“If I choose your bed?”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Josephine moved closer until their bodies nearly touched.
“And if I decide I want more than sleep?”
Harlan’s breath changed.
He lowered his head slightly.
“Then I need you to say it plainly.”
Josephine smiled.
“Still careful.”
“Especially now.”
She slid her hands upward along his chest.
“Harlan Creek.”
“Yes?”
“I want my husband to kiss me.”
His restraint finally cracked into a smile.
“That was plain.”
He kissed her.
Josephine wrapped her arms around his neck.
His hands settled carefully around her waist.
She pulled him closer.
This time, when her breath caught, he stopped only long enough to look at her.
Josephine nodded.
“Stay.”
He kissed her again.
The bedroom door closed.
What happened beyond it belonged only to them.
No debt.
No price.
No bargain.
Only choice.
The next morning, Josephine woke beneath a thick quilt.
Sunlight crossed the floor.
Harlan lay beside her.
One massive arm rested above the blanket rather than across her body.
Even asleep, he had left her space.
Josephine stared at him.
His beard looked ridiculous on the pillow.
She reached out and touched his nose.
His eyes opened.
“Morning.”
“You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Harlan frowned.
Josephine smiled.
Then his expression softened.
“You all right?”
There it was.
The question.
Still.
Always.
Josephine moved closer.
“Yes.”
“Certain?”
She laughed.
“If you ask me twice after everything last night, I will throw you out of your own bed.”
Harlan smiled.
Josephine rested her head against his chest.
For several minutes, they listened to the mountains waking.
Birds.
Wind.
The distant river.
Then Josephine whispered, “My mother was right about you.”
Harlan looked down.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“She said you understand shelter isn’t ownership.”
His expression became serious.
“I learned late.”
“Because of Ruth?”
“Yes.”
Josephine waited.
Harlan had never told the entire story.
Now he did.
His sister Ruth married at nineteen.
Her husband hit her.
She returned home twice.
Both times, Harlan’s father told her marriage was permanent.
The second time, Harlan himself had told her to be patient.
To try harder.
Ruth returned.
Months later, she ran away alone.
She reached St. Louis sick, frightened, and nearly penniless.
Miriam Vale found her.
Fed her.
Hid her.
Helped her take a train east under another name.
Ruth eventually wrote Harlan.
She was alive.