The woman hated that idea.
But because memory had become precious.
The ranger station where they kissed.
Gone now.
Only foundation stones.
The town hotel.
Renovated.
The porch where he proposed.
Their first bathhouse.
The old trail where she slipped and he compared her to a good horse.
She brought it up.
He groaned.
“You promised to forget.”
“I promised nothing.”
They laughed.
One evening, they opened the trapdoor.
Steam rose.
The mountain man sat at the edge.
The woman beside him.
He touched the iron ring.
“You remember the first night?”
“Yes.”
“You were terrified of me.”
“Yes.”
“Wise woman.”
She smiled.
“You were terrified too.”
He looked offended.
“I was not.”
“You blushed because I wore your shirt.”
“That was cold.”
“Your face was hot.”
He laughed.
Then became quiet.
“I knew who you were.”
“Yes.”
“I should have told you sooner.”
“Yes.”
“I was afraid you’d leave.”
She looked toward him.
“You had known me one hour.”
“I was lonely.”
“I know.”
He continued:
“I think some part of me recognized home before I recognized love.”
The woman’s eyes filled.
“That is disgustingly romantic.”
“I’m dying.”
“I’m allowed.”
She slapped his knee gently.
He smiled.
Then:
“Promise me something.”
She stiffened.
He noticed.
“No.”
“What?”
“No deathbed contracts.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
“Still.”
He sighed.
“Fine.”
“Request?”
“Better.”
He looked toward her.
“When I die, don’t close the lodge.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Why would I?”
“Because everything started here.”
“Everything started before you.”
“True.”
He continued:
“Don’t turn this cabin into a shrine.”
“I won’t.”
“Let people live in it.”
“Yes.”
“Use the spring.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t preserve my chair.”
She smiled through tears.
“It’s ugly.”
“Good.”
He took a breath.
“And don’t let people tell the story like I saved you.”
The woman stared.
“You did.”
“No.”
“I opened a door.”
“You hit robbers.”
“I had help.”
“You gave me shelter.”
“You escaped a stagecoach.”
“Walked through a storm.”
“Hit a man with a rock.”
“You carried the deed.”
“Made decisions.”
“Built the business.”
He looked toward her.
“You saved yourself before you found me.”
Her eyes filled.
He continued:
“I helped.”
“Let me be proud of helping.”
“But don’t let them make you smaller so I look bigger.”
The woman began crying.
He held her hand.
She whispered:
“I promise.”
He smiled.
“That one you’ll keep?”
“Yes.”
He died nine months later.
Not that night.
Not dramatically.