“Problem?”
“No.”
He drank.
She smiled.
Some victories took forty years.
As his health weakened, he asked to visit the spring more often.
His wife went with him.
Sometimes they spoke.
Sometimes not.
One autumn afternoon, they sat beneath the cottonwood while leaves moved across the water.
The rancher said:
“I used to think this spring was the most valuable thing in the territory.”
His wife smiled.
“To you, maybe.”
“It saved the ranch.”
“Yes.”
“So did you.”
She gave him a warning look.
“No sentimental nonsense.”
“I’m old too.”
“I get privileges.”
She laughed.
He continued.
“When your father offered the marriage, I thought survival meant preserving property.”
“I thought if I kept the herd, kept the land, kept the house, then I had succeeded.”
His wife listened.
“The fire taught me I had it backward.”
“You knew before the fire.”
“Maybe.”
“But that day forced me to choose without time to lie to myself.”
He looked toward the water.
“I left cattle.”
“You did.”
“I still dream about them sometimes.”
“I know.”
“But if I had gone after them and lost one man…”
His voice faded.
The wife took his hand.
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
He squeezed her fingers.
“And you broke the wall.”
“With help.”
“Always correcting.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
They watched the spring.
The rancher whispered:
“I would marry you again.”
She smiled.
“Knowing I own the water?”
“Even if you owned nothing.”
“That is easy to say after forty years.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
“Would I marry you again?”
He frowned.
“That pause was too long.”
She laughed.
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Ask better this time.”
He straightened as much as his old back allowed.
“Would you marry me because you want me, knowing I have terrible coffee, bad knees, and no useful water rights?”
She pretended to consider.
“Maybe.”
He groaned.
Then she kissed him.
“Yes.”
The rancher smiled like the young man he had once been.
He died the following spring.
Rain had been falling for two days.
The rancher lay in their bedroom with the window cracked enough to hear it.
His wife sat beside him.
Their children had gathered.
Grandchildren moved quietly downstairs.
The old man opened his eyes near dawn.
“Rain?”
“Yes.”
“Waste of spring water.”
His wife laughed through tears.
“Still ridiculous.”
He smiled weakly.
“Did we ever fix my coffee?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
“Terrible legacy.”
His breathing grew shallow.
The wife held his hand.
He looked toward the framed rejected deed on the wall.
Then toward her.
“Do you remember the fireplace?”
“Which time?”
“The night after the fire.”
“Yes.”
“You put the deed on my chest.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were leaving.”
Her eyes filled.
“I almost did.”
“What stopped you?”