“Yes.”
Graham dismounted.
Inside, the kitchen stopped him.
The table.
The stove.
Shelf.
Tin cup.
Bent handle.
He walked toward it.
“That was mine.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“She told me.”
He touched the cup.
Memory came whole.
Age eleven.
Running.
Collision.
Cup falling.
Mother shouting his full name.
Father laughing behind her.
Graham withdrew his hand.
Lila stood several feet away.
Not crowding.
He appreciated that too.
The first evening was awkward.
Lila cooked because Graham had no idea where anything was.
He tried helping.
She removed a knife from his hand.
“You're cutting those wrong.”
Graham stared.
“My mother teach you that?”
“Yes.”
He laughed.
“Of course.”
They ate.
Afterward Lila sat near the lamp mending a cuff.
Graham looked toward the spurs on the sideboard.
“You know more.”
“Yes.”
“About those.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
Lila put down the needle.
“Not tonight.”
Graham's expression hardened.
“Why not?”
“Because every time I tell you something, you spend the next hour trying to decide whether it proves your mother loved you or proves she didn't.”
He stared.
“And?”
“Those are not the only choices.”
Graham stood.
“What would you know?”
Lila rose too.
More slowly.
“I know enough to understand that somebody can love you badly.”
The room changed.
Graham's jaw tightened.
Lila continued.
“Love does not automatically make what somebody did right.”
“I never said it did.”
“No.”
“But you keep trying to make the wrong prove there was no love.”
Graham stepped closer.
“Careful.”
Lila's eyes flashed.
“Is that a warning?”
“It might be.”
She lifted her chin.
“Then make it clearer.”
For a moment neither moved.
Graham suddenly became aware of everything physical about the distance between them.
Her breathing.
The soft line of her throat above the burgundy collar.
His own pulse.
Lila saw the change.
Her anger shifted too.
Something hotter.
More dangerous in an entirely different way.
She whispered:
“That jaw has been tight since Wyoming.”
Graham looked at her mouth.
Lila saw.
“Is it grief, cowboy?”
She stepped half an inch closer.
“Or are you trying not to kiss me?”
The question struck him directly in the chest.
“Both.”
Lila's breath caught.
Graham's voice dropped.
“And one of those problems is getting a hell of a lot harder to control.”
For a second, she looked almost surprised by her own success.
Then she set the mending aside and lightly caught two fingers in his vest.
“Then stop hiding behind that hat and show me what happens when you lose control.”
Graham's hand moved to her waist.
Stopped.
He looked into her eyes.
“Tell me to stop.”
Her gaze fell to his mouth.
“If I wanted you to stop, I wouldn't be holding your vest.”
That was enough.
He kissed her.
Not hard.
Not at first.
Years of restraint had made Graham careful in ways anger never had.
Lila's fingers tightened.
He felt her step into him.