“For a while, I did.”
The girl looked hurt.
He corrected:
“I hated being hurt.”
“That isn't always the same.”
“Did you forgive her?”
“I didn't get the chance.”
She stared at the letter.
“Would you?”
The rancher thought for a long time.
“I hope so.”
She looked toward him.
“That means no.”
“No.”
“It means I learned not to trust the version of myself who was angry eleven years.”
The girl looked down.
The rancher continued.
“Your mother was wrong.”
“So was I.”
“We lost years trying to decide who was more wrong.”
The girl cried then.
He sat beside her.
She leaned against his shoulder.
After a while:
“She said you wouldn't punish me for her pride.”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
The rancher looked horrified.
“No.”
She smiled through tears.
“Good.”
Then:
“Did you take the others because of me?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
She nodded.
“I knew.”
“How?”
“Because they told me.”
He smiled.
Of course they did.
Family stories became collective property.
The niece eventually married.
On her wedding day, rain fell.
Of course.
October rain.
Mud near the church.
The rancher stood beneath the eave, older now, beard gray.
His niece came outside in her wedding dress, lifted the skirt, and stepped directly into a shallow puddle.
He stared.
“What are you doing?”
She smiled.
“Testing something.”
“What?”
She sat.
In the mud.
The rancher nearly had a heart attack.
Guests gasped.
She looked up.
Then lifted both arms toward him exactly like a toddler asking to be picked up.
The rancher understood.
His eyes filled.
“You are ruining that dress.”
“Uncle.”
“You're thirty years old.”
“Uncle.”
He laughed.
Then stepped into the mud.
He held out both hands.
She took them.
He pulled her up.
“You cry now.”
She looked toward him.
“What?”
“You cried plenty growing up.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
“Very.”
She hugged him.
Mud ruined everything from the knees down.
Nobody cared.
The county agent lived long enough to attend.
He watched from the church steps, now retired and walking with a cane.