She leaned closer.
He hesitated.
Then he turned the piece toward her.
It was a small wooden picture frame, carved with leaves and mountain flowers.
Along the bottom edge, he had carefully shaped two hands resting together.
One was enormous and scarred.
The other was broad and gently curved.
The woman stared.
Her expression changed.
“Is that supposed to be us?”
He looked embarrassed.
“Maybe.”
She lifted her hand toward her mouth.
He looked down.
“I'm not much of an artist.”
For a moment, she couldn't speak.
Then she reached toward him.
“May I see it?”
He handed it over.
She examined the carving carefully.
The work was simple but thoughtful.
The hands were not identical.
One carried the irregular shape of his damaged fingers.
The other reflected the fullness of her own.
Neither had been made smaller or more conventional.
He had carved them as they were.
The woman looked up.
Her eyes were wet.
“It's beautiful.”
He gave a small shrug.
“Thought you might put a picture in it someday.”
She traced the carved edges.
Then she looked toward him.
“Whose picture?”
He smiled faintly.
“Maybe ours.”
Her breath caught.
He looked down quickly.
“Unless you don't want—”
“I do.”
He looked up.
She was crying.
He moved closer.
“Darling?”
She held the frame against her chest.
“Nobody's ever made something like this for me.”
He frowned.
“Your husband built this whole cabin.”
She smiled through tears.
“He built things I needed.”
She looked toward the frame.
“This is something you made because you wanted to see us together.”
The rancher's throat tightened.
He reached for her hand.
She took it.
For several minutes, they sat quietly.
Then she whispered, “I've been afraid to imagine that.”
He looked at her.
“Imagine what?”
“A future with you.”
He nodded slowly.
“Me too.”
She studied him.
“Are you still?”
He considered the question.
Then he smiled.
“Less every day.”
She laughed softly.
He lifted her hand and kissed it.
Outside, melting snow dripped from the edge of the roof.
The sound was faint.
But both noticed.
Spring was beginning.
And spring meant the mountain trails would eventually open.
The thought should have pleased them.
Instead, it introduced a question they'd carefully avoided.
What would happen when he could return to his ranch?
The woman had never asked him to abandon his home.
She knew he had livestock, buildings, and responsibilities that could not be ignored indefinitely.