Wade slowly sat across from her on another bale.
Marisol looked at him.
“I hate that people can do that.”
“What?”
“Make you disappear without killing you.”
“Change the story until nobody knows where to look.”
Wade had no wise answer.
So he said:
“I know where you are.”
Marisol’s face crumpled slightly.
Wade continued.
“You’re in a tack room in Wyoming insulting my filing system.”
She laughed.
Tears remained.
“You’re safe today.”
“I can’t promise next year.”
“I can’t promise next week.”
“But today?”
“You’re here.”
Marisol reached toward him.
Wade gave her his hand.
She held it.
No more.
Enough.
Spring crept into the ranch.
Snow withdrew from south slopes.
The creek opened.
Calves arrived.
Marisol proved better with cattle than Wade expected and worse with horses than she claimed.
Her first attempt to saddle Wade’s mare resulted in the blanket sliding sideways and the mare looking personally offended.
Wade corrected it.
“You said you rode.”
“I said I had ridden.”
“When?”
“I was nine.”
“That is fraud.”
“You married me anyway.”
He looked at her.
“Yes.”
The word changed the air.
Marisol’s smile faded into something softer.
She stepped closer.
Wade could have kissed her.
He wanted to.
Instead he asked:
“May I?”
Her eyes widened slightly.
Then she nodded.
Wade touched her cheek.
Slowly.
Giving her every second to change her mind.
Marisol leaned into his palm.
Then he kissed her.
Once.
Gentle.
When he pulled back, she kept her hand on his coat.
“That’s all?”
Wade almost smiled.
“You complained about consent three seconds ago?”
“I’m complaining about efficiency.”
He kissed her again.
Longer.
Marisol’s arms moved around his neck.
Wade’s hands settled carefully at her waist.
The barn around them disappeared for a while.
When they separated, both were breathing differently.
Marisol whispered:
“Do you always ask?”
“Yes.”
“Even your wife?”
“You are my wife.”
“That is not what I mean.”
Wade understood.
He looked at her.
“Especially my wife.”
Something deep and guarded in Marisol’s expression softened.
“Good answer.”
That night she stood outside his bedroom.
Wade looked up from a cattle magazine.
Marisol wore her ivory nightgown again.
No document.
No satchel.
No headlights.
She leaned against the door.
“Do you remember what I asked the first night?”
His pulse changed instantly.
“Yes.”
“I’m asking again.”
Wade closed the magazine.
“Marisol.”
“This time I’m not scared.”
He stood.
She crossed the room.
Wade touched her face.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“Not the ranch.”
“Not the contract.”
“You.”
She smiled.
“And if you ask me one more question, I may reconsider.”