“Do you still miss her?”
He nodded.
“Every day.”
She looked at him.
“Then you should be allowed to.”
His eyes filled.
She continued.
“I miss my husband sometimes too.”
He nodded.
They sat quietly.
Then he looked toward the fire.
“I used to think there wasn't room in my heart for anyone else.”
She smiled sadly.
“And now?”
He looked at her.
“Now I'm beginning to think hearts aren't built like cabins.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“How so?”
He smiled.
“You don't have to tear down the old room to make space for a new one.”
Tears filled her eyes.
She laughed softly.
“That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard a carpenter say.”
He grinned.
“I'm a rancher.”
She smiled.
“Tonight, you're both.”
He leaned his forehead against hers.
And for the first time, the memory of his wife did not make him want to flee.
It made him grateful that he'd once known love.
And hopeful that he might know it again.
The snow did not begin to retreat from the mountain passes until late March.
By then, the rancher had spent more than six weeks moving between the woman's cabin, the stable, and the outbuildings, repairing storm damage whenever the weather allowed. The first blizzard had given way to several smaller storms, each leaving fresh snow across the trails and delaying his return to the ranch.
During that time, they had learned more about each other than either expected.
He discovered that she disliked strong coffee but drank it anyway when she was worried.
She discovered that he talked to horses as though they were elderly relatives.
He learned that her favorite time of day was the hour just before sunset, when the mountains turned blue and the snow reflected the last light.
She learned that he sometimes woke from dreams about his dead wife, then remained silent because he didn't know how to explain what he felt.
He began telling her when those memories troubled him.
She began admitting when the loneliness she'd lived with for years returned unexpectedly.
They did not always know what to say.
But they had stopped pretending that silence was the only respectable response.
One evening, after a particularly long day repairing the outer wall, the rancher sat near the fireplace, examining a small wooden frame he'd begun carving.
The woman watched him.
“What are you making?”
He glanced up.
“Nothing important.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You know I don't believe you when you say that.”
He smiled.
“Reckon you shouldn't.”