But the truth was simple.
He was lonely.
Painfully lonely.
And his ranch was falling apart.
For nearly twenty years, Carter Ranch had been the center of his life.
He inherited the property from his father, expanded the grazing land, repaired the old barn, and built a sturdy two-room cabin overlooking a stream that flowed from the mountains.
In prosperous years, the ranch supported more than eighty cattle.
There were horses.
A productive vegetable garden.
A small apple orchard.
And enough seasonal work to keep several hands employed.
Nathaniel had once dreamed of marrying young.
He'd courted a woman named Margaret Ellison when he was thirty-two.
She was the daughter of a storekeeper in Flagstaff, with bright green eyes and an easy laugh.
For nearly a year, they exchanged letters.
He visited whenever he could.
She sometimes rode out to the ranch with her brother.
Then Margaret's family decided to move east.
Her father accepted a position in Kansas City.
She asked Nathaniel to come.
He couldn't imagine abandoning the property.
She couldn't imagine spending her life in an isolated mountain valley.
They parted respectfully.
There was no betrayal.
No dramatic argument.
Just two people who wanted different futures.
Margaret eventually married a doctor.
Nathaniel heard about it from an old acquaintance.
He wished her well.
Then returned to the ranch.
Years passed.
He worked.
Saved money.
Endured droughts, difficult winters, and the ordinary disasters that seemed to arrive whenever cattle, fences, and mountain weather were involved.
He occasionally attended church socials.
Sometimes shared dinner with neighboring families.
But the older he grew, the harder it became to imagine someone choosing the life he offered.
And when a logging accident damaged his left hand the previous winter, everything began deteriorating faster.
The injury was not severe enough to prevent him from working entirely.
But the hand never regained its former strength.
Certain movements caused pain.
Gripping heavy tools became difficult.
And by evening, his fingers sometimes stiffened so badly that he struggled to button his shirt.
He refused to complain.
His father had taught him that ranchers solved problems.
They didn't sit around describing them.
But there was a difference between determination and capacity.
Nathaniel could still mend fences.
He just couldn't do it quickly enough.
He could still manage livestock.
But the work took longer.
And every delay created another.