The rancher returned to his plate.
After a moment she asked, “Why did you answer the advertisement?”
He swallowed.
“Winter.”
She stared.
“Romantic.”
“You asked.”
“Continue.”
“My ranch is isolated. My nearest neighbor is twelve miles south. Town is farther. I can cook badly and sew worse. I lose half my winter evenings doing work that someone with more sense could finish in half the time.”
“You wanted unpaid labor.”
“I offered joint ownership.”
That caught her attention.
“Yes. You did.”
“Half the ranch after two years.”
“And if you die?”
“All of it.”
“Why?”
The rancher shrugged.
“No family worth leaving it to.”
She looked down.
“And you?”
He asked.
“Why answer mine?”
She took longer.
“Because Chicago had stopped offering choices.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I said.”
He waited.
She did not elaborate.
The rancher understood barriers when he met them.
He changed subjects.
“You know bookkeeping?”
“Better than you.”
“You haven't seen my books.”
“I've seen your handwriting.”
He stared.
She smiled.
The agency had forwarded copies of his letters.
The rancher almost laughed again.
Instead he said, “We marry at three.”
“I know.”
“You still willing?”
Her smile vanished.
“Yes.”
“Even after seeing me?”
She blinked.
Then laughed so loudly several diners turned.
The rancher frowned.
“What?”
“You worried I might reject you?”
“I asked a reasonable question.”
“You’ve spent the past hour debating whether your floorboards can survive me.”
“They can.”
“You don't know that.”
“I built them.”
“How thick?”
“Two-inch pine over doubled joists.”
Her laughter stopped.
The rancher continued.
“I'll add braces underneath if needed.”
She studied him.
“You already thought about it.”
“Since the station.”
“You could simply say no.”
“So could you.”
Silence settled between them.
Then she extended her hand across the table.
The rancher looked at it.
“Two years,” she said. “Equal household accounts. No selling land without both signatures. No violence. No drunkenness.”
“I barely drink.”
“Good.”
“No debt taken in either name without discussion.”
“Agreed.”
“If either of us wants to leave after winter, we discuss it.”
He nodded.
She hesitated.
“And separate sleeping arrangements unless both decide otherwise.”
The rancher shook her hand.
“Agreed.”
At three fifteen that afternoon, they stood before a minister.
The rancher wore his only black coat.
The woman wore a dark green dress.
When the minister asked whether he accepted her as his lawful wife, the rancher looked into her eyes.
Not at the congregation.
Not at her size.
At her.
“I do.”
Her answer came seconds later.
Clear.
Steady.
“I do.”
There was no kiss.
Only a handshake.
The minister looked confused.
Neither spouse cared.
By sunset they were traveling north in the wagon.
The woman sat on a reinforced bench over the rear axle.