“Explain to your husband what happens when that gate closes.”
She met his eyes.
For a second, she considered ending everything.
She could walk upstairs.
Retrieve the iron box she had carried from her father’s house.
Lay the deed on the table.
Tell them both that the conversation was absurd because the spring belonged to her.
Instead she asked, “Would you close it?”
Her father did not answer.
That was answer enough.
The rancher saw.
His jaw hardened.
“Get out.”
Her father laughed.
“You think pride waters cattle?”
“Get out.”
The older man took his coat.
At the door, he looked back at his daughter.
“When the spring closes, remember who caused it.”
She answered quietly.
“If it closes, I will.”
He left.
The rancher stood motionless.
His wife returned to the dough.
After a long silence he said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Your father.”
She laughed once.
“You didn’t create him.”
“For saying the marriage began because of water.”
“It did.”
He looked toward her.
“That doesn't make hearing it easy.”
She stopped.
His honesty disarmed her again.
She whispered, “No.”
“I imagine it doesn’t.”
He stepped toward the door.
She asked, “Would you still marry me now?”
The question escaped before she could stop it.
The rancher froze.
Slowly he turned.
The wife instantly wished she could pull the words back.
His expression was unreadable.
He took one step toward her.
Then another.
“Do you want the answer?”
She swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Her heart struck once hard against her ribs.
He continued.
“But I would ask differently.”
“How?”
“I’d tell you about the debt.”
“The dying cattle.”
“The spring.”
“The fact that I am bad-tempered before breakfast.”
“You’re bad-tempered after breakfast.”
“Fair.”
A faint smile passed between them.
He continued more quietly.
“And I would ask without your father in the room.”
The wife looked down at the dough.
“That would have been better.”
“Yes.”
He left before either of them could say something more dangerous.
The spring remained open.
Her father did not close it.
Not yet.
The rancher assumed the threat had been a bluff.
His wife knew better.
Her father rarely abandoned leverage.
He simply waited until using it hurt more.
Spring came dry.
Too dry.
Snow melted early in the mountains.
Grass emerged thin.
By May, everyone in the valley was talking about another drought.
The rancher reduced the herd again.
His wife found him at the ledger one evening.
“You cannot sell another sixty.”
“I can.”
“You shouldn’t.”
He looked toward her.
“You’ve become an expert?”
“I can subtract.”
“Impressive.”
She pulled the ledger toward herself.
“If you sell sixty now at weak prices, you lose breeding cows that took ten years to build.”