He felt those words settle heavily inside him.
For years, he had treated himself like a man who deserved loneliness because he couldn't save his wife.
The woman had been treated as though she deserved loneliness because her body made other people uncomfortable.
Different wounds.
Similar silence.
He reached across the table.
She placed her hand in his.
“You shouldn't have to prove that,” he said.
Her eyes filled.
“Neither should you.”
He looked at her.
She continued.
“You think you're broken because you couldn't stop what happened to your wife.”
His jaw tightened.
She squeezed his hand.
“But you loved her. You stayed beside her. And when you lost her, you kept surviving even when you didn't know how.”
He lowered his eyes.
She leaned closer.
“That doesn't make you less worthy of being loved again.”
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
Then he whispered, “You make it sound simple.”
She smiled sadly.
“It isn't.”
He looked up.
She continued.
“I'm frightened too.”
“Of what?”
Her eyes moved toward his hand.
“Of wanting you to stay and discovering you only wanted to repay an old debt.”
He shook his head immediately.
“No.”
She swallowed.
“Of waking one morning and finding you've gone back to the mountains because being alone feels safer.”
He looked toward the window.
The storm raged beyond the glass.
Then he looked back.
“I've thought about leaving a hundred times tonight.”
Her face fell.
He tightened his grip.
“Not because I don't want you.”
She waited.
“Because I do.”
Her expression changed.
He continued.
“And wanting you frightens me.”
For a long moment, they sat without speaking.
Then she whispered, “We can be frightened together.”
He laughed softly.
“Reckon that's better than doing it alone.”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
After supper, the rancher insisted on washing the dishes.
The woman protested.
He pointed toward the stove.
“You cooked.”
She folded her arms.
“And?”
“And I can wash.”
She watched him carry the bowls toward the basin.
Then she smiled.
“You've got a stubborn streak.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Been told.”
He rolled up his sleeves.
As he worked, she sat near the fireplace, watching the flames.
The scene felt almost painfully familiar.
Her late husband had often washed dishes after supper.
Sometimes he sang while he worked.
Sometimes he complained about the amount of flour she managed to scatter across the kitchen.
She remembered those evenings with tenderness rather than bitterness.
Then she looked toward the rancher.
His broad back filled the kitchen space.