She looked toward him.
“We are not married yet.”
“No.”
“The reverend is coming tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then:
“Good.”
He looked surprised.
“You thought I might expect otherwise?”
“I did not know what you expected.”
Fair.
He carried her trunk into the small back room.
The bed had clean sheets.
One of the few things he had remembered.
The woman noticed.
“Thank you.”
The rancher nodded.
“I’ll feed the horses.”
“Do you want supper?”
He glanced toward the kitchen.
“There’s salt pork.”
“Anything else?”
“Beans.”
“Potatoes?”
“Some.”
“Flour?”
“Yes.”
She removed her bonnet.
Chestnut hair loosened slightly around her temples.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The rancher almost said:
You don’t have to.
Instead he said:
“Thank you.”
Outside, he leaned both arms over the corral rail and stared at nothing for several minutes.
He was ashamed.
Not of her.
Of himself.
He had written to a woman for three months.
She had described her work.
Her mother’s death.
Her years moving between boardinghouses.
Her fear that she would grow old spending her life caring for strangers who barely knew her.
He had written about loneliness.
Debt.
Ranching.
The wife he wanted.
The future he could barely imagine.
None of those letters had mentioned weight.
Yet when she stepped from the coach, he had immediately measured her against a woman who existed only in his head.
He hated that.
But hating his reaction did not erase it.
Inside, the woman found three shriveled potatoes.
Half an onion.
Salt pork.
Flour.
Molasses.
Coffee.
She also found the ranch ledger.
Not intentionally.
It had been left beneath a stack of newspapers.
She moved it to clear the table.
A loose invoice slipped out.
She picked it up.
Feed shipment.
Quantity.
Cost.
Nothing remarkable.
She placed it back.
Then began supper.
The meal was plain.
Fried potatoes.
Salt pork.
Biscuits that were flatter than she wanted because the baking powder had gone stale.
The rancher returned.
He washed.
Sat.
Took one bite.
Stopped.
The woman watched.
“Bad?”
“No.”
He took another.
“They’re good.”
Her face softened slightly.
“Thank you.”
He ate too quickly.
She noticed.
“When did you last eat?”
“This morning.”
“What?”
“Coffee.”
“That is not food.”
“It has beans.”
She stared.
He smiled faintly.
The joke worked.
Barely.
They ate.
Then came the first conversation about marriage.
The rancher placed his fork down.