Years later they would still argue.

Chapter Twenty — The Weight of Winter

The next November brought another storm.

Not as violent.

Still strong enough to shake the cabin.

The rancher stood beside the stove.

His wife sat near the table, sewing.

Black smoke suddenly puffed from the pipe.

Both froze.

The rancher looked at her.

She looked at him.

“No.”

He smiled.

“What?”

“You are not climbing onto the roof.”

“The chimney—”

“We installed the cleanout lever in August.”

He had forgotten.

She pointed.

The rancher pulled the iron handle.

Snow and soot dropped through the exterior trap.

The draft cleared instantly.

His wife smiled.

“Civilization.”

He stared at the stove.

Then started laughing.

“What?”

“A year ago I nearly killed myself doing something a lever now does.”

“You were always dramatic.”

“I?”

She returned to sewing.

The rancher crossed the room.

He stood beside her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're hovering.”

He bent and kissed her forehead.

She looked up.

“That was suspicious.”

“Can I not kiss my wife?”

“You usually want something.”

He considered.

“Coffee.”

She pointed toward the stove.

“Make it yourself.”

“Marriage has changed.”

“Yes.”

“For the worse.”

She laughed.

He made coffee.

Then sat beside her.

Wind moved around the cabin.

Warmth remained inside.

The rancher looked at the woman beside him.

The world had spent years reducing her to measurements.

Weight.

Width.

Cost.

Difficulty.

Her uncle had measured her in dollars.

Employers measured how much space she occupied.

Strangers measured how different she looked.

Even the rancher, on the railway platform, had begun by calculating whether his wagon could carry her.

He hated remembering that.

Because after years together, the number meant almost nothing.

He knew other measurements now.

How quickly she found an error in a ledger.

How many pages she could read before sleep.

How loudly she laughed when truly amused.

How long she stayed angry after he forgot to wipe mud from his boots.

How gentle her hands became with frightened animals.

How fiercely she defended people she loved.

How empty the cabin felt when she spent even one night away.

And how much fear a man's chest could hold when the woman he loved lay unconscious in snow.

She noticed him staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That expression means something.”

He smiled.

“I was thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“You say that often.”

“Because you prove it often.”

He took her hand.

The same hand that had held the ladder.

The same hand that opened in front of the stove to reveal blackened wire and expose a murder plot.

The same hand that had eventually taken his without contract, fear, or necessity.

“Do you regret coming here?”

She looked toward the window.

Snow fell beyond the glass.

“Sometimes.”

The rancher blinked.