Once a widow touched his arm too long.
Martha observed from across the room.
On the wagon home, Josiah said:
“You’re quiet.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
Martha looked at him.
“Do you know Mrs. Ellis was flirting with you?”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
Martha stared.
“You knew?”
“I have eyes.”
“And?”
“And I am married.”
“That has not stopped many men.”
“No.”
He looked toward her.
“Are you jealous?”
Martha considered denying it.
Then decided honesty was less tiring.
“Yes.”
Josiah’s smile became unbearable.
“If you look pleased, I will push you from this wagon.”
He stopped smiling.
Mostly.
Martha continued.
“I dislike feeling ridiculous.”
“You’re not.”
“I am sixty-one years old and jealous because another woman touched your sleeve.”
Josiah took her hand.
“I like knowing.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes I still wonder if you married me mainly because my business partnership was favorable.”
Martha stared.
“After twenty years?”
“Yes.”
“That may be the stupidest thing you have ever said.”
“Probably.”
She leaned closer.
“For the record, the business terms were mediocre.”
He laughed.
Martha kissed him.
Age softened some fears.
Not all.
They simply learned to speak before fear invented an entire story.
At sixty-five, Martha received a letter from Missouri.
Her former boarding-house partner had died.
A nephew settling accounts discovered old records showing Martha had been cheated during dissolution.
Money remained.
Not much by current standards.
Enough.
The nephew offered repayment.
Martha sat with the letter.
Josiah asked:
“Will you take it?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“Surprised?”
“A little.”
Martha folded the letter.
“Forgiveness does not require donating stolen money back to the thief’s estate.”
Josiah laughed.
She used the money to fund a commercial kitchen in Silver City for women starting food businesses.
The town council wanted to name it after her.
She refused.
They did anyway after she left the meeting.
She threatened legal action.
Nobody believed her.
The building became Higgins Kitchen Cooperative.
Martha complained for ten years.
Privately, she was proud.
Then came the winter Josiah nearly died.
He was sixty-eight.
Pneumonia.
The same word that had killed so many in those years.
Martha knew enough not to pretend.
He weakened fast.
The doctor stayed two nights.
Martha sat beside the bed.
Every memory of cholera returned.
Her first husband.
Sweat.
Breath.
Helplessness.
She became twenty-five again inside an older body.
Josiah opened his eyes one night.
“You’re frightening the doctor.”
“Good.”
“You haven’t slept.”
“Neither have you properly.”
“I’m doing all the sleeping.”
She glared.
He smiled weakly.
“Martha.”
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were going to.”
“What?”
“Some foolish final statement.”
He laughed, then coughed.