His eyes narrowed when he saw her.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.”
His jaw tightened.
Behind him, the rancher emerged.
He stopped.
The daughter had seen the reaction before.
Men tried to conceal it.
Most failed.
She was five feet six and weighed close to three hundred pounds, with a very full figure, broad hips, heavy arms, a round face, and the kind of body frontier women were often judged for before they said a word. Some men looked amused. Others disappointed. Some became overly polite, which she found worse.
The rancher simply looked surprised.
She met his eyes.
He recovered quickly.
“Ma’am.”
Her father said, “This is the man I told you about.”
“You told me almost nothing.”
Her father ignored that.
“You’ll marry in three weeks.”
The rancher looked toward him.
“Three?”
“Snow won’t wait.”
The daughter folded her hands.
“Apparently neither will you.”
Her father’s face hardened.
The rancher almost smiled.
Almost.
She noticed.
Her father continued.
“The arrangement benefits everyone.”
“Does it?”
“You will have your own household.”
“A husband.”
“Land.”
“Security.”
She looked directly at the rancher.
“And he gets water.”
Silence.
The rancher’s expression changed.
Her father said sharply, “Enough.”
The young woman ignored him.
She kept her eyes on the man she was apparently going to marry.
“Is that why you agreed?”
Her father stepped between them.
“This discussion is finished.”
The rancher said, “No.”
The older man turned.
The rancher looked at the young woman.
“Yes.”
Her father stared at him in disbelief.
The rancher continued.
“I need the spring.”
The daughter had expected denial.
A lie.
Something gentle and dishonest.
Instead she got truth.
It hurt more cleanly.
She nodded once.
“Thank you.”
The rancher frowned.
“For what?”
“For not insulting me with a prettier answer.”
Her father snapped, “You will both have plenty of time to discuss feelings after the wedding.”
The daughter turned toward him.
“I imagine you would prefer we never discuss them at all.”
Then she walked upstairs.
The rancher watched until she disappeared.
Her father muttered, “She can be difficult.”
The rancher looked toward him.
“Maybe she has reason.”
That was the first point in his favor.
Not enough.
But the first.
Three weeks later, they married in a small church with twenty-three witnesses, two bouquets already browning from frost, and a preacher who spoke for eleven minutes about duty.
The young woman wore deep burgundy instead of white.
Her father objected.
She wore it anyway.
The rancher stood beside her in a clean dark coat that fit him awkwardly across the shoulders.
When the preacher asked whether he accepted her willingly, he hesitated for less than a second.
She noticed.