“Tell her.”
“I have.”
The chief raised an eyebrow.
The frontiersman frowned.
“Not exactly.”
The chief waited.
The stranger sighed.
“We have an understanding.”
“What understanding?”
“That neither of us belongs to the other.”
The chief nodded.
“Good.”
“And that if one wants to leave, they leave.”
“Good.”
“And that nobody decides for her.”
The chief looked mildly offended.
“I apologized.”
“You did.”
“Many times.”
“Once.”
“For me, that is many.”
The frontiersman smiled.
The chief leaned forward.
“So marry her.”
The stranger nearly spilled his coffee.
“We were doing well.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
The chief sighed.
“You love her.”
“Yes.”
“She loves you.”
The frontiersman stared.
“She said that?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“I am not blind.”
The stranger looked toward the door.
“What if she doesn't want marriage?”
“Ask.”
“What if she says no?”
“Then she says no.”
“What if she says yes because she thinks you want it?”
The chief's expression softened.
“You still fear my first mistake.”
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
That surprised the stranger.
The chief continued.
“I wanted to repay my son's life. I thought honor required something large. I forgot honor without choice becomes pride.”
The frontiersman listened.
The chief said, “Do not repeat my mistake by becoming so afraid of taking her choice that you refuse to offer your own.”
The stranger was silent.
That sentence stayed with him long after the chief left.
Three days later, the daughter arrived at the cabin.
She carried dead bean plants.
She dropped them on the table.
“A funeral.”
The frontiersman looked at them.
“You carried those six miles?”
“I wanted you to see the bodies.”
“You're cruel.”
“Yes.”
She sat.
He poured coffee.
She tasted it.
“Still terrible.”
“Your family is very critical.”
“We are trying to improve you.”
He looked at her.
“What if I don't want improving?”
She smiled.
“Too late.”
The frontiersman became serious.
The daughter noticed.
“What?”
He stood.
Then sat again.
Then stood.
She watched with growing amusement.
“You are doing something strange.”
“Yes.”
“Should I leave?”
“No.”
He paced.
The daughter folded her arms.
“This is better than the beans.”
Finally he stopped.
“Your father came here.”
Her face changed instantly.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing.”
“That is suspicious.”
“He told me to ask you something.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I will kill him.”
“Could we finish this first?”
She looked at the stranger.
He suddenly seemed more frightened than she had ever seen him.
Her expression softened.
The frontiersman said, “I don't want to owe you anything.”
“You do owe me a knife.”
“Not helping.”
She smiled.
He continued.
“And I don't want you to owe me.”