“He could have built one ramp and ignored everything else.”
“He could have apologized once and refused to keep learning.”
“He didn’t.”
“Love was what he repeated.”
Billy stopped writing.
Martha smiled.
“That is the part worth remembering.”
Her final winter was gentle.
Snow came early but without violence.
Martha watched it from the wide front window.
The ranch hands decorated the dining room for Christmas.
Someone placed greenery around Josiah’s old chair.
Martha ordered it removed.
“Why?” a young worker asked.
“Because he hated pine needles indoors.”
Nobody knew if that was true.
Billy did.
He laughed.
Christmas dinner filled the house.
Workers.
Children.
Grandchildren of people Martha once employed.
She could no longer sit long without breathlessness, but she remained at the table through dessert.
A little girl asked:
“Were you really as big as a bear when you came here?”
Every adult froze.
Martha laughed.
“No.”
The girl frowned.
“My brother said.”
“Your brother is unreliable.”
“How big were you?”
Martha thought.
“Big enough that foolish people noticed before they noticed anything useful.”
The girl considered.
“Did Mr. Josiah notice?”
“Yes.”
“Was he foolish?”
“Very.”
The room laughed.
“What happened?”
“He improved.”
The child accepted that.
Martha looked toward the empty chair opposite.
So had she.
Improvement was mutual.
After dinner she asked Billy to stay.
He sat.
Martha handed him the original partnership contract.
The paper brittle.
“What do I do with this?”
“Archive.”
“Where?”
“Office.”
“Not family?”
“Business document.”
Billy nodded.
Then she handed him Josiah’s ring.
Not her wedding band.
His.
She had worn it on a chain since his death.
“This goes to the ranch archive too?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Bury it with me.”
Billy swallowed.
“Okay.”
Martha looked at him.
“Do not make the funeral ridiculous.”
“I promise.”
“No speeches longer than ten minutes.”
“Yes.”
“No one says I saved everyone.”
“Yes.”
“No one calls me an angel.”
Billy smiled through tears.
“That one may be impossible.”
“Then hauntings begin.”
He laughed.
Martha’s breathing worsened in February.
The doctor came.
There was little to do.
Heart.
Age.
A life.
She remained lucid.
One morning she asked to be moved near the kitchen.
Why?
Bread was baking.
The smell.
Not some great symbolic reason.
She liked it.
A young baker had overproofed one batch.
Martha noticed from across the room.
“Too warm.”
The woman stared.
“What?”
“Dough.”
She checked.
Martha was right.
Even dying, apparently, she remained irritating.
That evening Billy sat with her.
Snow outside.
Lamp low.
Martha opened her eyes.
“Scale?”
Billy smiled.
“Checked.”
“Accounts?”
“Balanced.”
“Payroll?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Early.”
“Yes.”
She breathed.
“Mine contract?”
“Renewed.”
“Too cheap?”
“We raised eight percent.”
“Should be ten.”